CALIFORNIA 

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LONDON  BOOK  CO- 

224  W.  Broadway 
Glendale,  Calif.  91204 


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As  He  Appeared  al  ihc  Time  He  Entered  the  Lecture  Field. 


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LECTURES 


AND 


Best  Literary  Productions 


OF 


BOB  TAYLOR 


Beautifully  Illustrated  With  Views  From  the  Scenes  of  His 
Early  Life  in  His  Beloved  "Happy  Valley" 


THE  BOB  TAYLOR  PUBLISHING  CO. 

Naihville,  Tenn.,  U.  S.  A. 

:912 


Copyright  1913,  by 
THE  BOB  TAYLOR  PUBLISHING  CO. 


CONTENTS 


Pace 
INTRODUCTORY. 

"A  Memory,"  by  DeLong  Rice 9 

"THE  FIDDLE  AND  THE  BOW." 

Music  of  a  Master  19 

Cherish  the  Little  Ones   22 

Fat  Men  and  Bald-Headed  Men 24 

The  Violin,  the  Poet  Laureate  of  Music 24 

The    Convict   and    His    Fiddle 25 

A  Vision  of  the  Old  Field  School 25 

The  Quilting  and  the  Old  Virginia  Reel 28 

The  Candy  Pulling  32 

The  Banquet 32 

The  Music  of  Politics 35 

The  Two  Columns   39 

A  Melody  for  Every  Ear 40 

Music  is  the  Wine  of  the  Soul 40 

The  Old  Time  Singing  School 42 

The  Grand  Opera  44 

Music  44 

"THE  PARADISE  OF  FOOLS." 

Man's  First  Estate   49 

Paradise  of  Childhood  52 

Paradise  of  the  Barefooted  Boy 54 

Paradise  of  Youth  56 

The  Stuttering  Youth   57 

Paradise  of  Home  59 

Bachelor  and  Widower  61 

Phantoms    62 

The  False  Ideal  63 

The  Circus  in  the  Mountains 64 

The  Phantom  of  Fortune 65 

Qocks    66 

The   Panic    67 

Bunk  City 68 

Your  Uncle 69 

Pessimism  and  Optimism 69 

Beautiful  Pictures  Blotted   70 


contents 

Page 
"VISIONS  AND  DREAMS." 

Multitudinous  Dreams   75 

The  Happy  Long  Ago 76 

Ambition's  Dream  79 

From  the  Cave  Man  to  the  Kissophone 83 

Dreams  of  the  Beautiful 86 

Visions  of  Departed  Glory 87 

Nature's  Musicians   88 

The  Fighting  Preacher   9° 

Brother  Estep  and  the  Trumpet 91 

"Wamper-Jaw"  at  the  Jollification 92 

The  Tintinnabulations  of  the  Dinner  Bells 93 

Phantoms  of  the  Wine  Cup 94 

The   Missing  Link    95 

Nightmare    95 

Infidelity    96 

The  Dream  of  God  96 

"LOVE,  LAUGHTER  AND  SONG." 

A  Lecture  of  the  Human  Heart loi 

"SENTIMENT." 

A  Lecture  of  the  Realm  of  the  Soul 125 

"THE  OLD  PLANTATION." 

A  Lecture  of  the  Glory  of  the  Old  South 141 

DIXIE. 

A  Plea  for  the  South,  Mellow  as  the  Mocking  Bird's  Song 159 

CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR. 

A  Prose  Poem  of  Rosy  Hopes  and  Shattered  Dreams 177 

TEMPTATION. 

A  Lecture  of  the  Humor  and  Pathos  of  Human  Nature 207 

UNCLE  SAM. 

An   Unfinished    Masterpiece    223 


ADDRESSES  TENNESSEE  CENTENNIAL. 


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Opening  231 

Tennessee  and  Governor's  Day 232 

To  the  Drummers   235 

Ohio  and  McKinley  Day 237 

Texas    Day    238 

Confederate  Day   240 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Georgia  Day   241 

New  Orleans  and  Louisiana  Day 243 

Kentucky  and  Red  Men's  Day 246 

Nashville    Day    247 

Memphis  and  Shelby  County  Day 250 

Irish-American  Day   256 

German-American  Day 256 

Nebraska  and   Bryan   Day 258 

Chicago  and  Illinois  Day 260 

To  Daughters  American   Revolution 262 

New   York   Day 263 

Missouri  Day   265 

Vermont  Day   266 

NOTABLE  SPEECHES. 

At  Knoxville   Carnival    268 

Funeral  Oration,  Isham  G.  Harris 271 

Presenting  Flag  to  Fourth  Tenn.  Volunteers 273 

To  Nashville  School  Children,  Presenting  Lieut.  Hobson 274 

Welcome  to  Lieut.  Hobson  and  Capt.  Maynard 276 

At  Dallas   Exposition    278 

To  the  Memory  of  Zebulon  B.  Vance 282 

On  Andrew  Jackson,  Before  St.  Louis-Tennessee    Society 282 

At  Confederate  Reunion,  Brownsville,  Tenn 293 

Undelivered  Speech  Prepared  for  the  Campaign  of  1912 298 

LOVE  LETTERS, 

To  Uncle  Sam   307 

To   the    Politicians    309 

To  the  Boys   312 

To  the  Girls  316 

To  the  Bachelors    320 

To  the   Drummers    324 

To   the    Fiddlers    327 

To  the  Fishermen  330 

To  the    Mothers-in-law    333 

To  the  Candidates  336 

To  the  Sweethearts   339 

To  the  Sportsmen  343 

To  the  School  Teachers   346 

To  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  349 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Page 
Robert   Love    Taylor,   as   he   appeared   at   the   time   he   entered   the 

Lecture  field,  twenty-one  years  ago I 

"Robin's  Roost,"  home  of  Bob  Taylor  at  Johnson  City,  where  most 
of  his  literary  work  was  done 8 

House   in   "Happy   Valley,"    where    Bob   Taylor   was   born,   showing 
also  the  old  barn  in  which  the  boys  held  their  early  debates 72 

Secluded  spot  on  the  margin  of  the  Nolachucky,  where  Bob  wrote 
"The  Fiddle  and  the  Bow" 88 

Great  ash  tree   on   Alf   Taylor's   farm,   where   Bob   rehearsed  "The 
Fiddle  and  the  Bow" 136 

Inspiring  view  of  the  Nolachucky,  looking  South  from  "slick  rock"..   152 

Valley  of  the  Nolachucky,  where  Bob  loved  to  "Serenade  the  van- 
ishing covies  of  quail  with  smokeless  powder  and  hitless  shot" 200 

Quiet  grove  on  farm  of  Gen.  James  P.  Taylor,  where  the  lecture, 
"Sentiment,"  was  written  216 

Fields  as  rich  as  the  Valley  of  the  Nile  (on  the  Nolachucky) 264 

Senator  Robert  Love  Taylor,  from  one  of  his  latest  photographs 280 


FOREWORD 


Since  books  were  first  written,  the  never-failing  Preface 
has  obtruded  itself  between  the  banqueter  and  the  banquet — 
sometimes  to  whet,  sometimes  to  dull  his  appetite ;  sometimes  to 
boast  the  richness  of  the  pages  that  follow,  sometimes  to  irri- 
gate their  dryness  with  rivers  of  praise. 

Far  different  is  the  mission  of  this  Preface.  The  excellence 
of  what  these  pages  offer  is  self-evident,  and  our  excuse  for  this 
book  is  the  genius  of  Bob  Taylor. 

We  believe  that  these  bright  children  of  his  brain  should  go 
laughing  and  singing  into  every  home  in  the  land,  and  we  send 
them  forth  to  the  welcome  which  awaits  them. 


Cuts  by  NashTille  Photo  &  Engraving  Co . 

Printed  by  Cumberland  Press 

Nashville,  Tennessee 


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INTRODUCTORY 


DELONG  Rice,  Lecture  Manager,  friend  and  companion  of 
Senator  Taylor  for  twenty  years,  ofifers  the  following  tribute  to  his 
memory; 

Illumines  his  lecture  career  and  discloses  interesting  facts  of  his 
marvelous    success ; 

Tells  how  he  created  "The  Fiddle  and  the  Bow''  and  crowns  him 
"King  of  the  American  Platform;" 

Encores  him  from  the  silence  of  death  to  speak  to  us  once  more : 


"Sweet   as   honey  flowed   his   stream  of  speech." 

For  twenty  years  Robert  Love  Taylor  was  the  most  suc- 
cessful lecturer  on  the  American  platform.  If  all  of  his  audi- 
ences could  be  gathered  together,  they  would  make  a  multitude 
of  millions  of  people. 

This  estimate  includes  the  tour  in  1895-6  with  his  brother, 
Hon.  Alfred  A.  Taylor,  in  their  joint  lecture,  "Yankee  Doodle 
and  Dixie,"  which,  in  its  splendid  balance  and  reciprocal 
beauty,  was  one  of  the  most  unique  and  sensationally  success- 
ful attractions  ever  presented  in  America.  Differing  widely  in 
manner  and  style,  each  served  as  a  foil  to  develop  the  brilliancy 
of  the  other. 

A  careful  estimate  shows  the  gross  earnings  of  Senator 
Tavlor's  lectures  to  have  run  far  into  the  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  dollars — a  sum  which,  had  he  hoarded  it  and  invested  it, 
might  have  easily  made  him  a  millionaire.  But  Bob  Taylor's 
riches  were  of  the  soul. 

You  ask:  What  became  of  his  money?  It  went  through 
the  sieve  of  his  great,  generous  heart  for  the  happiness  of  those 
he  loved,  for  the  betterment  of  mankind  and  the  advancement 
of  civilization.  Some  of  it  has  crossed  the  oceans  to  spread 
the  light  of  religion ;  some  of  it  is  crooning  above  the  cradles 
of  orphan  asylums ;  some  of  it  is  ministering  to  the  sick  in 
hospitals;  some  of  it  is  built  into  the  walls  of  libraries;  much 
of  it  is  standing  in  bronze  and  marble  grace  throughout  the 
South  to  perpetuate  the  glory  of  the  Confederate  soldier;  and 
still  more  of  it  is  pointing  toward  heaven  in  the  gleaming  spires 
(1) 


lO  INTRODUCTORY 

of  churches;  not  one  dollar  of  it  was  spent  to  serve  a  sordid 
purpose. 

No  more  appropriate  epitaph  could  be  carved  upon  the  tomb 
of  Robert  L.  Taylor  than  this :  He  loved  everybody  and  every- 
thing, except  money. 

That  he  was  an  extraordinary  man  is  a  fact  which  will 
pass  unquestioned  into  history.  As  the  viewpoints  of  those 
who  knew  him  differ,  so  will  their  opinions  diifer  as  to  the 
extent  of  his  greatness  and  the  fineness  of  his  genius.  In  the 
effort  to  correctly  focus  the  eyes  of  the  future  upon  him,  truth 
must  inevitably  wrangle  with  error;  and,  though  truth  shall 
prevail,  the  written  page  can  never  do  him  justice;  no  analysis 
can  clearly  define  him.  Not  even  a  Shakespeare  or  a  Milton 
can  paint  the  flavor  of  a  peach  or  picture  the  odor  of  a  rose. 
Poets  may  sing  forever  of  moonlit  rivers,  but  unless  you  have 
looked  upon  their  shimmering  silver  flowing  through  hours 
that  belong  to  dreams,  you  are  a  stranger  to  their  beauty. 

Only  those  who  have  seen  and  heard  Bob  Taylor  can  enjoy 
anything  approaching  a  true  conception  of  the  man.  Like  all 
remarkable  men,  he  followed  no  guide  and  walked  no  beaten 
road.  His  success  mocked  all  precedents  and  defied  all  rules. 
Though  he  occupied  for  thirty  years  the  throne  of  fame,  his 
severest  dignity  was  the  simplicity  of  his  nature,  and  love  was 
the  sword  of  his  strength.  His  perennial  humor  was  only  the 
tinsel  draping  of  his  power,  like  the  sun-embroidered  shawl  of 
mist  that  wraps  Niagara's  mighty  shoulders. 

This  man  of  marvelous  personality  was  a  veritable  human 
magnet.  Wherever  he  chose  to  cast  the  zone  of  his  influence 
the  multitudes  were  drawn  to  him  by  the  unseen  cords  of  his 
fascination.  An  incomparable  stump  speaker,  a  brilliant 
young  Congressman,  a  splendid  Governor,  he  nevertheless 
soared  above  these  accomplishments  and  left  them  far  below, 
for  it  was  on  the  lecture  platform  that  he  found  the  true  des- 
tiny of  his  talents  and  reached  the  noon  of  his  glory. 

It  was  in  October  of  1891  that  he  determined  to  leave  the 
harbor  of  political  achievement  and  set  forth  on  a  strange  sea. 
Contemplating  its  inhospitable  waters,  he  gathered  no  assur- 
ance of  certain  success,  for  he  remembered  that  beneath  its 
treacherous  tides  were  the  sunken  hopes  of  many  a  statesman. 


INTRODUCTORY  II 

But,  with  the  buoyant  heart  of  an  adventurous  mariner,  he 
prepared  for  the  first  voyage.  He  built  a  ship  of  wondrous 
beauty  and  christened  her  "The  Fiddle  and  the  Bow/'  His 
foreman  was  inspiration  and  the  muses  were  his  carpenters. 
Softly  moved  their  invisible  planes  and  saws  and  silently  fell 
their  hammers  of  fancy.  The  master  whose  mind  conceived 
this  phantom  craft  wrought  with  dubious  care,  for  he  knew 
that  she  must  travel  the  dead  waters  of  indifference,  breast  the 
green  waves  of  envy,  and  meet  the  fierce  tempests  of  criticism. 
Her  timbers  were  as  light  as  the  foam  of  a  fairy  ocean,  and 
her  frame  was  shaped  to  the  grace  of  a  swan.  Her  rigging  was 
roped  with  moonbeams,  and  her  sails  were  set  to  catch  the  winds 
from  a  thousand  islands  of  laughter  and  song.  She  flew  the 
flag  of  universal  love.  Her  gunners  were  cupids  and  her  guns 
were  Cupids'  bows.  On  her  deck  of  sentiment  skipped  and 
strolled  the  spirit  of  mirth  and  the  soul  of  pathos,  while  o'er 
her  keel  was  spilled  the  mellow  wine  of  long  ago. 

"The  Fiddle  and  the  Bow''  was  launched  in  the  cold 
gloom  of  a  December  evening  in  1891,  and  when  she  sailed 
back  home  amid  the  melting  ice  of  March  she  was  blazoned 
with  victory  and  freighted  with  gold. 

Bob  Taylor's  other  ships  that  were  launched  in  the  years 
that  followed  were  masterpieces.  All  were  the  bearers  of 
visions  as  voluptuous  and  fair  as  e'er  floated  in  the  festivals  of 
Cleopatra  above  the  drowsy  currents  of  the  Nile;  all  returned 
with  cargoes  of  wealth  to  their  builder,  arid  all  are  monuments 
to  his  memory;  but  no  vessel  ever  sailed  from  the  port  of  his 
dreams  which  so  completely  explored  and  conquered  the  vast 
deep  of  human  emotions  as  did  the  firstborn  of  his  genius. 

Having  glanced  at  Bob  Taylor's  successful  advent  into  the 
lyceum  world,  and  having  briefly  studied,  by  suggestion  and 
allegory,  the  mould  and  fibre  of  his  first  lecture,  let  us  consider 
for  a  moment  the  temper  of  the  public  toward  lecturers  and  the 
difficulties  which  confront  them. 

The  purely  educational  lecture  is  the  one  which  was  origi- 
nally intended  for  the  platform,  but  at  the  time  the  lyceum 
idea  began  to  assert  itself  in  the  United  States,  that  class  of 
lecture  was  far  more  of  a  necessity  than  it  is  today.  This  is 
the  age  of  printed  literature.     Because  a  man  can  pursue  the 


12  INTRODUCTORY 

classics  at  bis  own  fireside  and  learn  from  the  periodicals  of 
the  day  the  most  advanced  theories  on  all  current  questions, 
he  finds  it  less  necessary  and  less  desirable  to  spend  bis  money 
for  instruction  from  the  platform. 

But  still  less  attractive  is  the  lecture  which  lives  only  from 
lips  to  ear  and  dies  within  the  hour  of  its  delivery,  which  leaves 
no  lesson,  imparts  no  knowledge,  and  gives  no  stimulus  to  the 
nobility  of  our  natures.  It  is  the  strong  drink  of  the  platform, 
which  buoys  us  into  the  garden  of  false  fancy  for  an  instant 
and  then  leaves  us  in  dullness  and  remorse  when  its  temporary 
effect  has  flo"wn. 

Behold  the  two  dangers  of  the  platformist!  Unsweetened 
facts  and  unilluminated  figures  on  the  one  hand,  and  superficial 
nonsense  on  the  other.  Happy  is  the  man,  and  rare,  indeed, 
who  can  steer  his  course  clear  and  true  between  the  deadly 
Scylla  of  statistical  dry  dust  and  the  fatal  Charybdis  of  verbal 
froth.  'Tis  in  this  narrow,  though  bright  and  sunny,  strait  that 
the  jewel  of  success  is  found. 

He  who  would  win  must  be  able  to  interest  and  fascinate 
w^hile  giving  delightful  and  substantial  nourishment  to  the  in- 
tellect. He  must  know  how  to  gem  the  dullest  fact  with  pleas- 
ing lustre  and  point  the  most  frivolous  joke  with  lofty  purpose. 
To  be  a  savant  is  not  sufficient.  Scholarly  attainments  are 
only  his  raw  materials.  Though  there  be  folded  within  his 
brain  the  countless  pages  of  a  Carnegie  library,  the  voice  of  his 
knowledge  may  rasp  the  air  with  discord  and  the  words  of  his 
learning  may  fall  from  a  tuneless  tongue.  And,  even  with 
scholarship  and  music  of  speech,  he  may  fail  without  that  other 
and  greatest  essential — that  quality  which,  in  our  ignorance, 
we  sometimes  call  individuality,  sometimes  magnetism,  some- 
times personality,  always  genius.  Wherever  we  meet  it  we 
bow  before  its  sceptre,  but  when  we  seek  to  comprehend  it,  it 
flees  from  us  like  the  wraith  of  a  myth.  It  is  as  evasive,  as 
intangible  and  indescribable  as  the  power  of  electricity  which 
holds  the  universe  in  its  unseen  clutch.  It  sometimes  shows 
itself  in  a  glance  of  the  eye  or  flits  before  us  on  the  wings  of  a 
smile.  Unapproachable  as  a  spirit,  it  is  the  divine  dower  of  an 
immortal;  it  is  the  copyright  of  a  soul. 


INTRODUCTORY  13 

It  is  this  bewitching  force  that  weaves  the  laurels  and 
moulds  the  crowns  of  history.  It  was  this  mysterious  power, 
softened  with  love  and  seasoned  with  humor,  which  made  Bob 
Taylor  king  of  the  American  platform  for  twenty  years. 

It  seems  but  an  hour  since  the  sun  of  his  life  went  do^vn. 
While  yet  we  linger  in  the  twilight  of  recollection,  before  the 
night  of  forgetfulness  blurs  the  picture  of  memory,  let  us,  in 
imagination,  look  at  him  again.  We  will  erect  a  great  audi- 
torium in  the  realm  of  the  mind,  people  it  with  the  phantom 
forms  of  those  who  loved  him,  and  encore  him  from  the  silence 
of  death  to  speak  to  us  once  more. 

There  he  is,  in  the  dressing  room,  impatiently  waiting  to 
begin,  absent-minded  and  uncommunicative  to  those  who  have 
the  bad  judgment  to  persist  in  talking  to  him  while  he  is  mass- 
ing his  faculties  for  his  effort.  The  glow  of  intense  interest  is 
in  his  face.  He  is  a  general  preparing  to  send  his  troops  to 
victory.  Observing  him,  a  man  near  by  asks  if  his  lecture  is 
to  be  extemporaneous.  Oh,  foolish  question !  It  would  be  as 
sensible  to  ask  if  ^Napoleon  manufactured  powder  on  the  thun- 
dering field  of  Marengo  or  moulded  cannon  balls  amid  the  roar- 
ing guns  of  Austerlitz. 

Now  the  curtain  rises  on  fluttering  fans  and  radiant  faces, 
the  eager  expectants  of  a  joyous  hour.  The  droning  murmur  of 
the  multitude  is  hushed,  and  many  a  conversation  dies  on  the 
lips  of  whispering  lovers.  This  is  the  most  dangerous  moment 
that  comes  to  a  speaker,  and  the  keen  sense  of  our  orator  feels 
it.  He  learns,  with  a  look  of  satisfaction,  that  the  useless  in- 
troductory speech  is  to  be  omitted  and  that  he  is  to  appear  un- 
announced. He  does  not  slouch  to  the  front  with  tliat  unem- 
barrassed awkwardness  and  insolent  brass  so  common  among 
successful  speakers.  Straightening  himself  to  his  full  height 
with  a  quick  and  springing  grace,  he  advances  to  the  footlights 
with  military  precision  of  step.  A  gentle  wave  of  applause 
rolls  through  the  audience,  but  he  gives  it  no  acknowledgment. 
He  does  not  smile ;  he  does  not  bow ;  only  stands  still  and  waits 
for  quiet.  In  the  extreme  straightness  of  his  posture  he  appears 
to  lean  back  a  little  above  the  waistline.  His  face  is  slightly 
uplifted,  and  his  left  hand  is  raised  to  rest  lightly  over  his 
heart.     Though  perfectly  calm,  he  is  not  careless.     Every  nerve 


14  INTRODUCTORY 

of  concentration  is  on  duty.  He  does  not  persecute  us  with  a 
prelude  or  bore  us  with  a  preamble.  The  music  of  his  discourse 
starts  with  his  first  word,  and  his  opening  sentence  thrills  us 
as  when  a  master  sw^eeps  the  strings  of  his  harp  in  the  full  flow 
of  its  melody.  He  is  no  solemn-browed  teacher  vexing  us  with 
major  premise  and  minor  premise,  and  assailing  us  with  logical 
conclusions.  Such  matters  are  left  to  Socrates  and  Plato  and 
Aristotle,  the  crystal  fountains  of  philosophy.  He  is  telling  us 
of  things  we  already  know,  though  we  have  never  known  them 
as  we  see  them  now.  He  opens  the  doors  of  an  endless  picture 
gallery,  and  when  we  step  into  its  enchanted  halls,  lo !  it  is  only 
the  old,  familiar  earth,  through  v/hich  we  have  walked  witli 
unseeing  eyes.  Yonder,  where  we  have  looked  upon  ragged 
cliffs  and  crags,  he  shows  us  the  towering  mountains,  subdued 
and  toned  in  their  gigantic  grandeur  by  the  poetic  haze  of 
Indian  summer.  The  hills  up  which  we  have  toiled  and  the 
valleys  where  we  have  labored  are  adorned  with  new-found 
charms.  We  learn  that  the  gold  of  harvest  fields  is  more  than 
a  promise  of  biscuits  and  pies,  and  that  the  foaming  beauty 
of  cascade  and  cataract  will  quench  the  thirst  of  our  souls. 

Lashing  us  to  the  pinions  of  his  mind,  he  leaves  the  picture 
gallery  of  earth  and  soars  aloft  to  where  worlds  are  born,  re- 
veals our  weakness  and  unveils  the  power  of  God  in  the  light  of 
wheeling  suns. 

Now,  on  the  easy  wings  of  his  daring  art,  he  descends  from 
boundless  tracts  of  stars  to  a  thicket  of  jabbering  apes  and  sings 
a  Simian  love  song  under  a  cocoanut  tree. 

Fresh  from  zones  of  comets  and  astral  climes,  we  are  con- 
vulsed with  laughter.  He  smiles  at  us  while  waiting  for  the 
storm  of  mirth  to  pass,  and  then  leads  us  back  to  the  happy  land 
of  childhood,  becomes  a  boy  himself,  re-acts  the  reckless  deeds 
of  barefoot  days,  and  convicts  us  of  forgotten  crimes,  besieges 
forbidden  orchards  and  throws  headlong  courage  against  the 
red-hot  bayonets  of  charging  hornets.  He  plunders  pantries 
and  loots  cupboards,  and  while  we  laugh  and  laugh  again  he 
wipes  his  cherry-stained  lips  upon  his  ragged  sleeve. 

Deftly  he  closes  the  gates  of  the  realm  of  yesterday,  and  the 
eyes  of  merriment  are  dimmed  with  tears. 


INTRODUCTORY  1$ 

Eve  we  are  aware  of  it,  he  wafts  us  into  a  new  kingdom 
where  every  melodious  sound  is  the  fragment  of  an  anthem.  In 
the  deep  forest,  cool  with  shadows  and  morning  dew^,  he  coaxes 
from  the  golden  throats  of  wild  birds  the  sweet  concord  of  bands 
and  choirs;  and  where  the  dusk  of  evening  falls  on  meadow 
and  grove  and  stream  he  marshals  the  voices  of  the  night  in 
grand  rehearsal.  With  master  baton  he  conducts  a  chorus  of 
crickets  and  katydids,  of  beetles  and  bullfrogs,  and  all  the 
countless  creatures  of  chirping  throats  and  Avhining  wings. 

The  end  of  the  lecture  is  near ;  he  leaves  the  scenes  of  gran- 
deur and  of  levity,  takes  us  into  the  purple  chamber  of  his 
heart  and  talks  to  us  of  the  intimate  things  of  life ;  divines, 
with  eyes  of  love,  the  dimpling  dreams  of  little  babes,  and 
counts  the  striped  marbles  of  our  children,  hallows  the  faces  of 
father  and  mother,  and  consecrates  the  home. 

Eighty  minutes  have  swiftly  flowm  while  he  has  swept  the 
keys  and  chords  of  human  sentiment.  Applause  is  clamoring 
for  more,  but  his  finishing  note  has  been  struck.  He  bows  and 
w\alks  rapidly  off  the  stage,  and  the  curtain  falls,  while  laughter 
sighs  and  pathos  smiles. 

O,  unique  character  among  men!  We  salute  thee  ere  we 
say  farewell.  INTo  mind  could  soar  in  beauty's  skies  with  freer 
flight.  Who  but  thee  could  drop  with  grace  from  flying  planets 
to  grimacing  monkeys  ?  Who  but  thee  could  hold  us  spell- 
bound W'ith  discourse  on  such  little  things  as  beetles  and  frogs 
and  butterflies?  Only  Shakespeare  in  all  the  pages  of  litera- 
ture; and  in  this  particular  art  thou  didst  outdo  him,  for  in 
the  endless  scale  of  thy  matchless  voice  were  all  the  mimic 
sounds  of  forest  and  field  and  flowing  waters,  and  thou  couldst 
glorify  or  distort  thy  noble  face  to  impersonate  whatsoever 
thou  w^ouldst.  In  thee  speechless  nature  found  a  voice,  and 
thou  didst  become  the  tongue  of  dumb  beauty.  Thy  like  shall 
not  appear;  the  centuries  shall  sigh  in  vain  for  thy  dupli- 
cate. Would  that  we  could  hold  and  fijj  thee  here  in  the  fullness 
of  thy  wonted  pow^er,  as  a  lasting  legacy  to  millions  yet  to  be ; 
but  barren  is  our  wish,  for  while  broken-hearted  music  sobbed 
in  sacred  song  above  thy  open  grave,  we  saw  all  that  earth  can 
claim  of  thee  sink  to  everlasting  rest  beneath  sheaves  and  shocks 
of  roses. 


"THE  FIDDLE  AND  THE  BOW 


yy 


"  THE  FIDDLE  AND  THE  BOW." 

MUSIC    OF    A    MASTER. 

I  heard  a  great  master  play  on  the  wondrous  violin ;  his 
bow  quivered  like  the  wing  of  a  bird;  in  every  quiver  there 
was  a  melody,  and  every  melody  breathed  a  thought  in  language 
sweeter  than  was  ever  uttered  by  human  tongue.  I  was  con- 
jured— I  was  mesmerized  by  his  music.  I  thought  I  fell  asleep 
under  its  power  and  was  rapt  into  the  realm  of  visions  and 
dreams.  The  enchanted  violin  broke  out  in  tumult,  and  through 
the  rifted  shadows  in  my  dream  I  thought  I  saw  old  ocean 
lashed  to  fury.  The  wing  of  the  storm-god  brooded  above  it, 
dark  and  lowering  with  night  and  tempest  and  war.  I  heard 
the  shriek  of  the  angry  hurricane,  the  loud-rattling  musketry  of 
rain  and  hail,  and  the  louder  and  deadlier  crash  and  roar  of 
the  red  artillery  on  high.  Its  rumbling  batteries,  unlimbered 
on  the  vapory  heights  and  manned  by  the  fiery  gunners  of  the 
storm,  boomed  their  volleying  thunders  to  the  terrible  rhythm 
of  the  strife  below.  And  in  every  stroke  of  the  bow  fierce  light- 
nings leaped  down  from  their  dark  pavilions  of  cloud,  and,  like 
armed  angels  of  light,  flashed  their  trenchant  blades  among  the 
phantom  squadrons  marshaling  for  battle  on  the  field  of  the 
deep.  I  heard  the  bugle-blast  and  battle-cry  of  the  charging 
winds,  wild  and  exultant,  and  then  I  saw  the  billowy  monsters 
rise,  like  an  army  of  Titans,  to  scale  and  carry  the  hostile 
heights  of  heaven.  Assailing  again  and  again,  as  often  hurled 
back  headlong  into  the  ocean's  abyss,  they  rolled,  and  surged, 
and  writhed,  and  raged  till  the  affrighted  earth  trembled  at 
the  uproar  of  the  warring  elements.  I  saw  the  awful  majesty 
and  might  of  Jehovah,  flying  on  the  wings  of  the  tempest,  plant- 
ing his  footsteps  on  the  trackless  deep,  veiled  in  darkness  and 
in  clouds. 

There  was  a  shifting  of  the  bow.  The  storm  died  away  in  the 
distance  and  the  morning  broke  in  floods  of  glory.  Then  the 
violin  revived  and  poured  out  its  sweetest  soul.  In  its  music  I 
heard  the  rustle  of  a  thousand  joyous  wings  and  a  burst  of  song 


20  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

from  a  thousand  joyous  throats.  Mocking  birds  and  linnets 
thrilled  the  glad  air  with  their  warblings ;  goldfinches,  thrushes 
and  bobolinks  trilled  their  happiest  tunes,  and  the  oriole  sang 
a  lullaby  to  her  hanging  cradle  that  rocked  in  the  wind.  I 
heard  the  twitter  of  skimming  swallows  and  the  scattered 
covey's  piping  call.  I  heard  the  robin's  gay  whistle,  the  croak- 
ing of  crows,  the  scolding  of  blue-jays  and  the  melancholy 
cooing  of  a  dove.  The  swaying  treetops  seemed  vocal  with  bird 
song  while  he  played,  and  the  labyrinths  of  leafy  shade  echoed 
back  the  chorus.  Then  the  violin  sounded  the  hunter's  horn, 
and  the  deep-mouthed  pack  of  fox  hounds  opened  loud  and 
wild,  far  in  the  ringing  woods,  and  it  was  like  the  music  of  a 
hundred  chiming  bells. 

There  was  a  tremor  of  the  bow,  and  I  heard  a  flute  play, 
and  a  harp,  and  a  golden-mouthed  cornet ;  I  heard  the  mirthful 
babble  of  happy  voices  and  peals  of  laughter  ringing  in  the 
swelling  tide  of  pleasure ;  then  I  saw  a  vision  of  snowy  arms, 
voluptuous  forms  and  light,  fantastic,  slippered  feet,  all  whirl- 
ing and  floating  in  the  mazes  of  the  misty  dance.  The  flying 
fingers  now  tripped  upon  the  trembling  strings  like  fairy  feet 
dancing  on  the  nodding  violets,  and  the  music  glided  into  a 
still  sweeter  strain.  The  violin  told  a  story  of  human  life. 
Two  lovers  strayed  beneath  the  elms  and  oaks,  and  down  by  the 
river's  side,  where  daffodils  and  pansies  bend  and  smile  to 
rippling  waves,  and  there,  under  the  bloom  of  incense-breathing 
bowers,  under  the  soothing  sound  of  humming  bees  and  splash- 
ing waters — there  the  old,  old  story — so  old  and  yet  so  new — 
conceived  in  heaven,  first  told  in  Eden,  and  then  handed  down 
through  all  the  ages — was  told  over  and  over  again.  Ah,  those 
do%vnward-drooping  eyes,  that  mantling  blush,  that  trembling 
hand  in  meek  submission  pressed,  that  fluttering  heart,  that 
heaving  breast,  that  whispered  "yes,"  wherein  a  heaven 
lies — how  well  they  told  of  victory  won  and  Paradise  regained ! 
And  then  he  swung  her  in  a  grapevine  swing.  Young  man, 
if  you  want  to  win  her,  wander  with  her  amid  the  elms  and 
oaks  and  swing  her  in  a  grapevine  swing. 


THE    FIDDLE   A,ND   THE    BOW  21 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Swinging  where  the  wild  birds  sing; 
I  dream  and  sigh  for  the  days  gone  by, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing. 
But  swiftly  the  tides  of  music  run, 

And  swiftly  speed  the  hours. 
Life's  pleasures  end  when  scarce  begun. 

E'en  as  the  summer  flowers. 

The  violin  laughed  like  a  child,  and  my  dream  changed 
again.  I  saw  a  cottage  amid  the  elms  and  oaks,  and  a  little 
cnrly-head  toddled  at  the  door.  I  saw  a  happy  husband  and 
father  return  from  his  labors  in  the  evening  and  kiss  his  happy 
wife  and  frolic  with  his  baby.  The  purple  glow  now  faded  from 
the  western  skies;  the  flowers  closed  their  petals  in  the  dewy 
slumbers  of  the  night;  every  wing  was  folded  in  the  bower; 
every  voice  Avas  hushed ;  the  full-orbed  moon  poured  silver  from 
the  east  and  God's  eternal  jewels  flashed  on  the  brow  of  night. 
The  scene  changed  again.  While  the  great  master  played,  and 
at  midnight's  holy  hour,  in  the  light  of  a  lamp  dimly  burning, 
clad  in  his  long,  white  mother-hubbard,  I  saw  the  disconsolate 
victim  of  love's  young  dream  nervously  walking  the  floor,  in  his 
bosom  an  aching  heart,  in  his  arms  the  squalling  baby.  On  the 
drow^sy  air,  like  the  sad  wails  of  a  lost  spirit,  fell  his  woeful 
voice,  singing: 

La-e,  Lo-e,  hush-a-bye  baby — dancing  the  baby  ever  so  high, 
With   my   La-e,   Lo-e,   hush-a-bye   baby — mamma    will   come   to   you    bye 
and  bye. 

It  was  a  battle  with  king  colic.  But  this  ancient  invader 
of  the  empire  of  babyhood  had  sounded  a  precipitate  retreat; 
the  curly  head  had  fallen  over  on  the  paternal  shoulder;  the 
tear-stained  face  was  almost  calm  in  repose — when  down  went 
a  naked  heel  square  on  an  inverted  tack.  Over  went  the  work 
table — down  came  the  work  basket,  scissors  and  all — up  went 
the  heel  with  the  tack  sticking  in  it,  and  the  hero  of  the  daffo- 
dils and  pansies,  with  a  yell  like  the  Indian  warwhoop,  and 
with  his  mother-hubbard  now  floating  at  half  mast,  hopped  in 
agony  to  a  lounge  in  the  rear.  There  was  "weeping  and  gnash- 
ing of  teeth."  There  were  hoarse  mutterings.  There  was  an 
angry  shaking  of  the  screaming  baby,  which  he  had  awakened 
again.     Then  I  heard  an  explosion  of  wrath  from  the  warm 


22  LECTURES    OF    ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

blankets  of  the  conjugal  couch,  eloquent  with  the  music  of 
*'How  dare  you  shake  my  little  baby  that  way ! ! !  I'll  tell  Pa 
tomorrow ! ! !"  which  instantly  brought  the  trained  husband  into 
line  again,  singing: 

La-e,  Lo-e,  hush-a-bye  baby — dancing  the  baby  ever  so  high ; 

La-e,  Lo-e,  hush-a-bye  bab)^ — mamma  will  come  to  you  bye  and  bye. 

The  paregoric  period  of  life  is  full  of  spoons  and  midnight 
squalls,  but  what  is  home  without  a  baby! 

The  bow  now  brooded  like  a  gentle  spirit  over  the  violin  and 
the  music  eddied  into  a  mournful  tone ;  another  year  inter- 
vened ;  a  little  coffin  sat  by  the  empty  cradle ;  the  prints  of  baby 
lingers  w^ere  on  the  windowpanes;  the  toys  were  scattered  on 
the  floor ;  the  lullaby  was  hushed ;  the  sobs  and  cries,  tlie  mirth 
and  mischief,  and  the  tireless  little  feet  were  no  longer  in  the 
way  to  vex  and  worry;  sunny  curls  drooped  above  eyelids  that 
were  closed  forever;  two  little  dimpled  cheeks  were  bloodless 
and  cold,  and  two  little  dimpled  hands  were  folded  upon  a 
motionless  breast.  The  vibrant  instrument  sighed  and  wept; 
it  rang  the  church  bell's  knell;  and  the  second  story  of  life, 
which  is  the  sequel  to  the  first,  was  told. 

Then  I  caught  glimpses  of  a  half-veiled  Paradise  and  a 
sweet  breath  from  its  flowers;  I  saw  the  hazy  stretches  of  its 
landscapes,  beautiful  and  gorgeous  as  Mahomet's  vision  of 
heaven;  I  heard  the  faint  swells  of  its  distant  music,  and  saw 
the  flash  of  white  wings  that  never  weary  wafting  to  the  bosom  of 
God  an  infant  spirit.  A  string  snapped — the  music  ended — 
my  vision  vanished.  The  old  master  is  dead,  but  his  music  will 
live  forever ! 

CHERISH  THE  LITTLE  ONES. 

Do  you  sometimes  forget  and  woimd  the  hearts  of  your 
children  with  frowns  and  the  dagger  of  cruel  words,  and  some- 
times with  a  blow?  Do  you  sometimes,  in  your  own  meanness 
and  your  o^vn  peevishness,  wish  yourself  away  from  their  fret- 
ful cries  and  noisy  sports  ?  Then  think  that  tomorrow  may 
ripen  the  wncked  wish !  Tomorrow  death  may  lay  his  icy  hand 
upon  a  little  fluttering  heart,  and  it  will  be  stilled  forever.  'Tis 
then  you  will  miss  the  sunbeam  and  the  sweet  little  flower  that 


THE   FIDDLE   A,ND   THE   BOW  2$ 

reflected  heaven  on  the  soul.  Then  cherish  the  little  ones !  Ee 
tender  with  the  babes !  Make  your  homes  beautiful !  All  that 
remains  to  us  of  Paradise  lost  clings  about  the  home.  Its 
purity,  its  innocence,  its  virtue,  are  there,  unclouded  by  sin, 
untainted  by  guile.  There  woman  shines,  scarcely  dimmed  b;^ 
the  fall,  reflecting  the  loveliness  of  Eden's  first  wife  and  mother. 
The  grace,  the  beauty,  the  sweetness  of  the  wifely  relation,  the 
tenderness  of  maternal  affection,  the  graciousness  of  manner 
which  once  charmed  angel  guests  still  glorify  the  home. 

If  you  would  make  your  homes  happy,  you  must  make  the 
children  happy.  Get  down  on  the  floor  with  your  prattling 
boys  and  girls  and  play  horse  with  them;  don't  kick  up  and 
buck,  but  be  a  good  and  gentle  old  steed,  and  join  in  a  hearty 
horse  laugh  in  their  merriment;  take  the  baby  on  your  knee 
and  gallop  him  to  town;  let  him  practice  gymnastics  on  top 
of  your  head  and  take  your  scalp;  let  him  puncture  a  hole  in 
your  ear  with  his  little  teeth,  and  bite  off  the  end  of  the  paternal 
nose.  Make  your  homes  beautiful  with  your  duty  and  your 
love ;  make  them  bright  with  your  mirth  and  your  music. 

Victor  Hugo  said  of  ISTapoleon  the  great:  "The  frontiers 
of  kingdoms  oscillated  on  the  map.  The  sound  of  a  super- 
human sword  being  drawn  from  its  scabbard  could  be  heard. 
And  he  was  seen  opening  in  the  thunder  his  two  wings,  the 
grand  army  and  the  old  guard.  He  was  the  archangel  of  war." 
And  when  I  read  it  I  thought  of  the  death  and  terror  that  fol- 
lowed wherever  the  shadow  of  the  open  wings  fell.  I  thought 
of  the  blood  that  flow^ed  and  the  tears  that  were  shed  wherever 
the  sword  gleamed  in  his  hand.  I  thought  of  the  human  skulls 
that  paved  ^N^apoleon's  way  to  St.  Helena's  barren  rock,  and  I 
said  I  would  rather  dwell  in  a  log  cabin  in  the  beautiful  land 
of  the  mountains  wdiere  I  was  born  and  reared,  and  sit  at  its 
humble  hearthstone  at  night,  and  in  the  firelight  play  the  hum- 
ble rural  tunes  on  the  fiddle  to  my  happy  children,  and  bask 
in  the  smiles  of  my  sw^eet  wife,  than  to  be  the  "archangel  of 
war,"  with  my  hands  stained  with  human  blood,  or  to  make 
the  "frontiers  of  kingdoms  oscillate  on  the  map  of  the  w^orld," 
and  then,  away  from  home  and  kindred  and  country,  die  at  last 
in  exile  and  in  solitude. 


24  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR  / 

FAT    MEN   AND   BALD-HEADED   MEN. 

It  ought  to  be  the  universal  law  that  none  but  fat  men  and 
bald-headed  men  should  be  the  heads  of  families,  because  they 
are  always  good-natured,  contented  and  easily  managed.  There 
is  more  music  in  a  fat  man's  laugh  than  there  is  in  a  thousand 
orchestras  or  brass  bands.  Fat  sides  and  bald  heads  are  the 
symbols  of  music,  innocence  and  meek  submission.  Oh,  ladies, 
listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom !  Cultivate  the  society  of  fat 
men  and  bald-headed  men,  for  "of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven."  And  the  fat  women — God  bless  their  old  sober 
sides — they  are  "things  of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever." 


THE  VIOLIN;,  THE  POET-LAUKEATE   OF   MUSIC, 

How  sweet  are  the  lips  of  morning  that  kiss  the  waking 
world;  how  sweet  is  the  bosom  of  night  that  pillows  the  world 
to  rest !  But  sweeter  than  the  lips  of  morning  and  sweeter  than 
the  bosom  of  night  is  the  voice  of  music  that  wakes  a  world  of 
joys  and  soothes  a  world  of  sorrows.  It  is  like  some  unseen 
ethereal  ocean  v/hose  silver  surf  forever  breaks  in  song,  forever 
breaks  on  valley,  hill  and  crag  in  ten  thousand  symphonies. 
There  is  a  melody  in  every  sunbeam,  a  sunbeam  in  every  mel- 
ody; there  is  a  flower  in  every  song,  a  love-song  in  every 
flower ;  there  is  a  sonnet  in  every  gurgling  fountain,  a  hymn  in 
every  brimming  river,  an  anthem  in  every  rolling  billow.  Music 
and  light  are  twin  angels  of  God,  the  firstborn  of  heaven,  and 
mortal  ear  and  mortal  eye  have  caught  only  the  echo  and  the 
shadow  of  their  celestial  glories. 

The  violin  is  the  poet-laureate  of  music;  violin  of  the  vir- 
tuoso and  master;  FIDDLE  of  the  untutored  in  the  ideal  art. 
It  is  the  aristocrat  of  the  palace  and  the  hall;  it  is  the  demo- 
crat of  the  unpretentious  home  and  humble  cabin.  As  violin  it 
weaves  its  garlands  of  roses  and  camelias;  as  fiddle  it  scatters 
its  modest  violets.  It  is  admired  by  the  cultured  for  its  mag- 
nificent powers  and  wonderful  creations;  it  is  loved  by  the 
millions  of  the  people  for  its  simple  melodies. 


THE    FIDDLE   AND   THE   BOW  25 

THE    CONVICT    AND    HIS    FIDDLE. 

One  bright  morning,  just  before  Christmas  Day,  an  official 
stood  in  the  executive  chamber  in  my  presence  as  Governor  of 
Tennessee,  and  said :  "Governor,  I  have  been  implored  by  a 
poor,  miserable  wretch  in  the  penitentiary  to  bring  you  this 
rude  fiddle.  It  was  made  by  his  own  hands  with  a  penknife 
during  the  hours  allotted  to  him  for  rest.  It  is  absolutely  val- 
ueless, it  is  true,  but  it  is  his  petition  ,to  you  for  mercy.  He 
begged  me  to  say  that  he  has  neither  attorneys  nor  influential 
friends  to  plead  for  him;  he  is  poor,  and  all  that  he  asks  is 
that  when  the  Governor  shall  sit  at  his  own  happy  fireside  on 
Christmas  Eve,  with  his  own  happy  children  around  him,  he 
will  play  one  tune  on  this  rough  fiddle  and  think  of  a  cabin 
far  away  in  the  mountains  whose  hearthstone  is  cold  and  deso- 
late and  surrounded  by  a  family  of  poor  little  wretched,  ragged 
children,  crying  for  bread  and  waiting  and  watching  for  the 
footsteps  of  their  convict  father."  Who  w^ould  not  have  been 
touched  by  such  an  appeal  ?  The  record  was  examined ;  Christ- 
mas Eve  came;  the  Governor  sat  that  night  at  his  own  happy 
fireside,  surrounded  by  his  happy  children,  and  he  played  one 
tune  to  them  on  that  rough  fiddle.  The  hearthstone  of  the  cabin 
in  the  movmtains  was  bright  and  warm;  a  pardoned  prisoner 
sat  with  his  baby  on  his  knee,  surrounded  by  HIS  rejoicing 
children  and  in  the  presence  of  HIS  happy  wife ;  and,  although 
there  was  naught  but  poverty  around  him,  his  heart  sang,  "Be 
it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home,"  and  then  he 
reached  up  and  snatched  his  fiddle  down  from  the  wall  and 
played  "Jordan  is  a  hard  road  to  travel." 


A  VISION  OF  THE   OLD  FIELD  SCHOOL. 

Did  you  never  hear  a  fiddler  fiddle?  I  have.  I  heard  a 
fiddler  fiddle,  and  the  ha-da-diddle  of  his  frolicking  fiddle 
called  back  the  happy  days  of  my  boyhood ;  the  old  field  school- 
house,  with  its  batten  door  creaking  on  wooden  hinges,  its  win- 
dows innocent  of  glass,  and  its  great,  ya\\Tiing  fireplace  crack- 
ing and  roaring  and  flaming  like  the  infernal  regions,  rose  from 
the  dust  of  memory  and  stood  once  more  among  the  trees ;  the 
limpid  spring  bubbled  and  laughed  again  at  the  foot  of  the 

(2) 


26  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

hill ;  flocks  of  nimble,  noisy  boys  turned  somersaults,  and  skinned 
the  eat,  and  ran  and  jumped  half  hammond  on  the  old  play- 
ground. The  grim  old  teacher  stood  in  the  door;  he  had  no 
brazen-mouthed  bell  to  ring  then  as  we  have  now,  but  he  shouted 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "Come  to  books! !"  and  they  came.  Not 
to  come  meant  "war  and  rumors  of  war."  The  backless  benches, 
high  above  the  floor,  groaned  under  the  weight  of  irrepressible 
young  America ;  the  multitude  of  mischievous,  shining  faces,  the 
bare  legs  and  feet  swinging  to  and  fro,  and  the  mingled  hum  of 
happy  voices,  spelling  aloud  life's  first  lessons,  prophesied  the 
future  glory  of  the  State.  The  curriculum  of  the  old  field  school 
was  the  same  everyivhere — one  AVebster's  blue-backed  element- 
ary spelling  book,  one  thumb-paper,  one  stonebruise,  one  sore 
toe  and  Peter  Parley's  travels. 

The  grim  old  teacher,  enthroned  on  his  split-bottom  chair, 
looked  "terrible  as  an  army  with  banners."  And  he  presided 
with  a  dignity  and  solemnity  which  would  have  excited  the  envy 
of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court.  I  saw  the  school  com- 
missioners visit  him  and  heard  them  question  him  as  to  his 
system  of  teaching.  They  asked  him  whether,  in  geography, 
he  taught  that  the  world  is  round  or  that  the  world  is  flat. 
With  great  dignity  he  replied :  "That  depends  upon  whar  I'm 
teachin'.  If  my  patrons  desire  me  to  teach  the  round  system, 
I  teach  it;  if  they  desire  me  to  teach  the  flat  system,  I  teach 
that." 

At  the  old  field  school  I  saw  the  freshman  class,  barefooted 
and  with  pantaloons  rolled  up  to  the  knees,  stand  in  line  under 
the  ever-uplifted  rod  and  sing  the  never-to-be-forgotten  b-a  ba's. 
They  sang  them  in  the  OLDEW  times,  and  this  is  the  way  they 
sang :  "B-a  ba,  b-e  be,  b-i  bi,  ba,  be,  bi — b-o  bo,  b-u  bu — ba,  be, 
bi,  bo,  bu." 

I  saw  a  sophomore  dance  a  jig  to  the  music  of  a  dogwood 
sprout  for  throwing  paper  wads.  I  saw  a  junior  compelled  to 
stand  on  the  dunce  block  on  one  foot  (a  la  gander)  for  wink- 
ing at  his  sweetheart  in  time  of  books,  for  failing  to  know  his 
lessons,  and  for  various  other  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors. 

A  twist  of  the  fiddler's  bow  brought  a  yell  from  the  fiddle, 
and  in  my  dream  I  saw  the  school  come  pouring  out  into  the 
open  air.     Then  followed  the  games  of  prisoner's  base,  to^vn- 


THE   FIDDLE   AJJD   THE   BOW  27 

ball,  "Antney-over,"  bull-pen,  and  knucks — the  hand-to-hand 
engagements  with  yellow  jackets,  the  Bunker  Hill  and  Brandy- 
wine  battles  with  bumblebees,  the  charges  on  flocks  of  geese,  and 
the  storming  of  apple  orchards  and  hornets'  nests.  Then  I  wit- 
nessed the  old  field  school  exhibition — the  WOiSTDERFUL  ex- 
hibition— they  call  it  commencement  now.  Did  you  never  wit- 
ness an  old  field  school  exhibition,  far  out  in  the  country,  and 
listen  to  its  music  ?  If  you  have  not  your  life  is  a  failure — you 
are  a  broken  string  in  the  harp  of  the  universe.  The  old  field 
school  exhibition  was  the  parade  gTound  of  the  advance  guard  of 
civilization.  It  was  the  climax  of  great  events  in  the  olden 
times,  and  vast  assemblies  were  swayed  by  the  eloquence  of  the 
budding,  sockless  statesmen.  It  was  at  the  old  field  school 
exhibition  that  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  always  received  a 
broken  nose  and  the  poetic  muse  a  black  eye.  It  was  at  the  old 
field  school  exhibition  that  GREECE  and  ROME  rose  and  fell, 
in  seas  of  gore,  about  every  fifteen  minutes  in  the  day,  and  the 
American  eagle,  with  unwearied  flight,  soared  upward  and  up- 
ward till  he  soared  out  of  sight.  It  was  at  the  ohl  field  school 
exhibition  that  the  fiddle  and  the  bow  immortalized  themselves. 
When  the  frowning  old  teacher  advanced  on  the  stage  and 
nodded  for  silence,  instantly  there  WAS  silence  in  the  vast 
assembly ;  and  when  the  corps  of  country  fiddlers — "one  of  which 
I  was  often  whom"seated  on  the  stage,  hoisted  the  black  flag 
and  rushed  into  the  dreadful  charge  on  "Old  Dan  Tucker"  or 
"Arkansas  Traveler,"  the  spectacle  was  sublime.  Their  heads 
swung  time;  their  bodies  rocked  time;  their  feet  patted  time; 
their  eyes  winked  time ;  their  teeth  ground  time.  The  whizzing 
bows  and  screaming  fiddles  electrified  the  audience,  who  cheered 
at  every  brilliant  turn  in  the  charge  of  the  fiddlers.  The  good 
women  laughed  for  joy;  the  men  winked  at  each  other  and 
popped  their  fists;  it  was  like  the  charge  of  the  Old  Guard  at 
Waterloo  or  a  battle  with  a  den  of  snakes.  Upon  the  comple- 
tion of  the  grand  overture  of  the  fiddlers,  the  brilliant  pro- 
gramme of  the  exhibition,  which  usually  lasted  all  day,  opened 
with  "Mary  had  a  little  lamb,"  and  it  gathered  fury  until  it 
reached  Patrick  Henry's  "Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death!" 
The  programme  was  interspersed  with  compositions  by  the 
girls,  from  the  simple  subject  of  "Flowers,"  including  "Bless- 


28  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

ings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight,"  up  to  "Every  cloud  has 
a  silver  lining,"  and  it  was  interlarded  with  frequent  tunes 
by  the  fiddlers  from  early  morn  till  close  of  day. 

Did  you  never  hear  the  old  field  school  orator  speak?  He 
was  not  dressed  like  a  United  States  Senator,  but  he  was 
dressed  with  a  view  to  disrobing  for  bed  and  completing  his 
morning  toilet  instantly,  both  of  which  he  performed  during 
the  acts  of  ascending  and  descending  the  stairs.  His  uniform 
was  very  simple.  It  consisted  of  one  pair  of  breeches,  rolled 
up  to  the  knees,  with  one  patch  on  the  western  hemisphere ;  one 
little  shirt  with  one  button  at  the  top,  one  gallus,  and  one  in- 
valid straw  hat.  His  straw  hat  stood  guard  over  his  place  on 
the  bench  while  he  v\'as  delivering  his  great  speech  at  the  ex- 
hibition. With  great  dignity  and  eclat,  the  old  teacher  ad- 
vanced on  the  stage  and  introduced  him  to  the  expectant  audi- 
ence, and  he  came  forward  like  a  cyclone. 

"The  boy  stood  on  the  burnin'  deck,  Avhence  all  but  him  had 
fled — The  flames  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck  shone  'round  him 
o'er  the  dead — Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood — The  boy 
stood  on  the  burnin'  deck — and  he  wuz  the  bravest  boy  that 
ever  lived.  His  father  told  him  to  keep  a-standin'  there  till  he 
told  him  to  git  off'n  there,  and  the  boy  he  jist  kep  a-standin' 
there — and  fast  the  flames  rolled  on.  The  old  man  went  down 
stairs  in  the  ship  to  see  about  sumpen,  and  he  got  killed  down 
there,  and  the  boy  he  didn'  know  it,  and  he  jist  kep'  a-standin' 
there — and  fast  the  flames  rolled  on.  He  cried  aloud,  'Say, 
father,  say,  if  YIT  my  task  is  done' — but  his  father  wuz  dead 
and  couldn't  hear  'im,  and  the  boy  he  jist  kep'  a-standin' 
there! — and  fast  the  flames  rolled  on.  They  caught  like  flag- 
banners  in  the  sky,  and  at  last  the  ol'  biler  busted,  an'  the  boy, 
he  went  up!" 

At  the  close  of  this  great  speech  the  fiddle  fainted  as  dead 
as  a  herring. 


THE  QUILTING  AND  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  REEL. 

The  old  fiddler  took  a  fresh  chew  of  long,  green  tobacco  and 
rosined  his  bow.  He  glided  off  into  "Hop  light,  ladies,  your 
cake's  all  dough,"  and  then  I  heard  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark. 


THE   FIDDLE   AND   THE   BOW  29 

I  heard  the  guinea's  merry  "potrack."  I  heard  a  cock  crow.  I 
heard  the  din  of  happy  voices  in  the  "big  house,"  and  the  sizz 
and  songs  of  boiling  kettles  in  the  kitchen.  It  was  an  old-time 
quilting — the  May  day  of  the  glorious  ginger  cake  and  cider 
era  of  the  American  Kepublic,  and  the  needle  was  mightier  than 
the  sword.  The  pen  of  Jefferson  announced  to  the  world 
the  birth  of  the  child  of  the  ages;  the  sword  of  Washington 
defended  it  in  its  cradle,  but  it  would  have  perished  there  had 
it  not  been  for  the  brave  women  of  that  day  who  plied  the  needlo 
and  made  the  quilts  that  warmed  it,  and  who  nursed  it  and 
rocked  it  through  the  perils  of  its  infancy  into  the  strength  of 
a  giant.  The  quilt  was  attached  to  a  quadrangular  frame  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling,  and  the  good  women  sat  around  it  and 
quilted  the  live-long  day,  and  were  courted  by  the  swains  be- 
tween stitches.  At  sunset  the  quilt  was  always  finished.  A  cat 
was  then  thrown  into  the  center  of  it,  and  the  happy  maiden 
nearest  to  whom  the  escaping  kitty-puss  passed  was  sure  to  be 
the  first  to  marry. 

Then  followed  the  groaning  supper  table,  surrounded  by 
giggling  girls,  bashful  young  men  and  gossipy  old  matrons  who 
monopolized  the  conversation.  There  was  a  warm  and  animated 
discussion  among  the  old  ladies  as  to  what  was  the  most  de- 
lightful product  of  the  garden.  One  old  lady  said  that  "so  fur 
as  she  was  consarned  she  preferred  the  "pertnrnip,"  another 
preferred  the  "pertater,"  another  the  "cow-cumber,"  and  still 
another  voted  "ingern"  king.  But  suddenly  a  wise-looking  old 
dame  raised  her  spectacles  and  settled  the  whole  question  by 
observing:  "Ah,  ladies,  you  may  talk  about  your  turnips  and 
your  taters,  and  your  passnips,  and  other  gyardin  sass,  but  the 
sweetest  wedgetable  that  ever  melted  on  these  old  gums  o'  mine 
is  the  'possum." 

At  length  the  feast  was  ended,  the  old  folks  departed,  and 
the  fun  and  frolic  began  in  earnest  at  the  quilting.  Old  Uncle 
Ephraim  was  an  old  darkey  in  the  neighborhood,  distinguished 
for  calling  the  figures  for  all  the  dances  for  miles  and  miles 
around.  He  was  a  tall,  raw-boned,  angular  old  darkey,  with  a 
very  bald  head  and  a  great  deal  of  white  in  his  eyes.  He  had 
thick,  heavy  lips  and  a  very  flat  nose.  T  will  tell  you  a  little 
story  of  Uncle  "Ephraham."    He  lived  all  alone  in  his  cabin,  as 


30  LECTURES   OF    ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

■ 

many  of  the  old-time  darkies  lived,  and  his  'possum  dog  lived 
with  him.  One  evening  old  Uncle  "Ephraham"  came  home  from 
his  labors  and  took  his  'possum  dog  into  the  woods  and  soon 
caught  a  fine,  large,  fat  'possum.  He  brought  him  home  and 
dressed  him,  and  then  he  slipped  into  his  master's  garden  and 
stole  some  fine,  large,  fat  sweet  potatoes  ("master's  nigger,  mas- 
ter's taters"),  and  he  washed  the  potatoes  and  split  them  and 
piled  them  in  the  oven  around  the  'possum.  He  set  the  oven 
on  the  red-hot  coals,  and  put  the  lid  on  and  covered  it  with  red- 
hot  coals,  and  then  sat  down  in  the  corner  and  nodded  and 
breathed  the  sweet  aroma  of  the  baking  'possum  till  it  was  done. 
Then  he  set  it  out  into  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  took  the  lid 
off,  and  sat  down  by  the  smoking  'possum  and  soliloquized: 
"Dat's  de  fines'  job  o'  bakin'  'possum  I  ever  has  done  in  my 
life,  but  dat  'possum's  too  hot  to  eat  yit.  I  believes  I'll  jis'  lay 
down  heah  by  'im  an'  take  a  nap  while  he's  coolin',  an'  maybe 
I'll  dream  about  eatin'  'im,  an'  den  I'll  git  up  an'  eat  'im,  an' 
I'll  git  de  good  uv  dat  'possum  bofe  times  dat  away."  So  he 
lay  do\\Ti  on  the  floor,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  sleeping  as  none 
but  the  old-time  darkey  could  sleep — as  sweetly  as  a  babe  in  its 
mother's  arms.  Old  Cye  was  another  old  darkey  in  the  neigh- 
borhood prowling  around.  He  poked  his  head  in  at  "Ephra- 
ham's"  door  ajar  and  took  in  the  whole  situation  at  a  glance. 
Cye  merely  remarked  to  himself,  "I  loves  'possum  myself." 
And  he  slipped  in  on  his  tiptoes  and  picked  up  the  'possum  and 
ate  him  from  tip  to  tail,  and  piled  the  bones  down  by  "Ephra- 
ham." He  ate  the  sweet  potatoes  and  piled  the  hulls  down  by 
the  bones ;  then  he  reached  into  the  oven  and  got  his  hand  full 
of  'possum  grease  and  rubbed  it  on  "Ephraham's"  lips  and 
cheeks  and  chin,  and  then  folded  his  tent  and  silently  stole  away. 
At  length  "Ephraham"  awoke.  "Sho'  nuf,  sho'  nuf — jist  as  I  ex- 
pected ;  I  dremp  about  eat'n  dat  'possum,  an'  it  was  de  sweetes' 
dream  I  ever  has  had  yit !"  He  looked  around,  but  empty  was 
the  oven — "'possum's  gone."  "Sho'ly  to  de  Lo'd,"  said  "Ephra- 
ham," "I  nuwah  eat  dat  'possum  while  I  was  a-dreamin'  'bout 
eat'n  'im."  He  poked  his  tongue  out.  "Yes,  dat's  'possum 
grease  sho' —  I  s'pose  I  eat  dat  'possum  while  I  wuz  a-dreamin' 
'bout  eat'n  'im,  but  ef  I  did  eat  "im  he  sets  lighter  on  my  con- 


THE    FIDDLE   AND   THE    BOW  3I 

stitutioii  and  has  less  influence  wid  me  dan  any  'possum  I  ever 
has  eat  in  my  bawn  days!" 

Old  Uncle  "Ephraham"  was  present  at  the  country  dance 
in  all  his  glory.  He  was  attired  in  his  master's  old  claw-hammer 
coat,  a  very  buff  vest;  a  high  standing  collar,  the  corners  of 
which  stood  out  six  inches  from  his  face ;  striped  pantaloons 
that  fitted  as  tightly  as  a  kid  glove,  and  he  wore  ISTo.  14  shoes. 
He  looked  as  though  he  was  born  to  call  the  figures  of  the 
dance.  The  fiddler  was  a  young  man  with  long  legs,  a  curv- 
ing back,  and  a  neck  of  the  crane  fashion,  embellished  with  an 
Adam's  apple  which  made  him  look  as  though  he  had  made  an 
unsuccessful  effort  to  swallow  his  own  head.  But  he  was  a 
very  important  personage  at  the  dance.  With  great  dignity  he 
unwound  his  bandanna  handkerchief  from  his  old  fiddle  and  pro- 
ceeded to  tune  for  the  fray.  Did  you  never  hear  a  country 
fiddler  tune  his  fiddle  ?  He  tuned,  and  he  tuned,  and  he  tuned. 
He  tuned  for  fifteen  minutes,  and  it  was  like  a  melodious  frog 
pond  during  a  shower  of  rain.  At  length  Uncle  "Ephraham" 
shouted,  "Git  yo'  pardners  for  a  cow-tillion."  The  fiddler 
struck  an  attitude,  and  after  countless  yelps  from  his  eager 
strings  he  glided  off  into  that  sweet  old  Southern  air  of  "Old 
Uncle  I^ed,"  as  though  he  were  mauling  rails  or  feeding  a 
threshing  machine.  Uncle  "Ephraham"  sang  the  chorus  with 
the  fiddle  before  he  began  to  call  the  figures  of  the  dance : 

"Lay  down  de  shovel  an'  de  hoe,  hoe,  hoe — hang  up  de  fiddle  an'  de  bow, 
For   dar's   no   mo'   work    for   poor   ol'   Ned — he's    gone    whar    de    good 
niggers  go." 

Then,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  he  began: 
"Honor  yo'  pardnahs!  Swing  dem  co'ners — swing  yo'  pard- 
nahs  !  Fust  couple  forward  and  back !  Half  right  an'  lef '  fru ! 
Back  agin  !  Swing  dem  co'ners !  Swing  yo'  pardnahs !  ISTex' 
couple  for'd  an'  back !  Half  right  an'  lef  fru !  Back  agin ! 
Swing  dem  co'ners !  Swin  yo'  pardnahs !  Fust  couple  to  de 
right — lady  in  de  center — ban's  all  aroun' — suh-wing!  ]^ex' 
couple  swing!     ISTex'  couple  suh-wing!     Suh-wing,  suh-wing!" 

About  this  time  an  angry  lad,  who  had  been  jilted  by  his 
sweetheart,  shied  a  fresh  egg  from  without,  which  struck 
"Ephraham"  square  between  the  eyes,  broke  and  landed  on  his 


32  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

upper  lip.  Uncle  "Ephraham"  yelled,  "Stop  de  music — stop 
de  dance— let  de  whole  circumstances  ob  dis  occasion  come  to  a 
stan'still  till  I  finds  out  who  it  is  a-scram'lin'  eggs  aroun'  heah !" 
And  then  the  dancing  subsided  for  the  candy-pulling. 


THE    CANDY-PULLING. 


The  sugar  was  boiling  in  the  kettles,  and  while  it  boiled  the 
boys  and  girls  played  "snap,"  and  "eleven  hand,"  and  "thim- 
ble," and  "blindfold,"  and  another  old  play  which  some  of  our 
older  people  will  remember — 

"Oh,   Sister   Phoebe,  how   merry  were  we 
When  we  sat  under  the  juniper  tree, 
The  juniper  tree  Hi  O." 

And  when  the  sugar  had  boiled  down  into  candy  they 
emptied  it  into  greased  saucers,  or,  as  the  mountain  folks  called 
them,  "greased  sassers,"  and  set  it  out  to  cool ;  and  when  it  had 
cooled  each  boy  and  girl  took  a  saucer  and  they  pulled  the  taffy 
out  and  patted  it  and  rolled  it  till  it  hung  well  together,  and 
then  they  pulled  it  out  a  foot  long;  they  pulled  it  out  a  yard 
long,  and  they  doubled  it  back,  and  pulled  it  out,  and  looped  it 
over,  and  pulled  it  out,  and  when  it  began  to  look  like  gold  the 
sweethearts  paired  off  and  consolidated  their  taffy  and  pulled 
against  each  other.  They  pulled  it  out,  and  doubled  it  back,  and 
looped  it  over,  and  pulled  it  out ;  and  sometimes  a  peachblow 
cheek  touched  a  bronzed  one  and  sometimes  a  sweet  little  voice 
spluttered  out,  "You,  Jack,"  and  there  was  a  suspicious  smack 
like  a  cow  pulling  her  foot  out  of  stiff  mud.  They  pulled  the 
candy  and  laughed  and  frolicked;  the  girls  got  taffy  on  their 
hair,  the  boys  got  taffy  on  their  chins;  the  girls  got  taffy  on 
their  waists,  the  boys  got  taffy  on  their  coat  sleeves.  They  pulled 
it  till  it  was  as  bright  as  a  moonbeam  and  then  they  plaited  it 
and  coiled  it  into  fantastic  shapes  and  set  it  out  in  the  crisp  air 
to  cool.  Then  the  courting  began  in  earnest.  They  did  not 
court  then  as  the  young  folks  court  now.  The  young  man  led 
his  sweetheart  back  into  a  dark  corner  and  sat  down  by  her,  and 
held  her  hand  for  an  hour  and  never  said  a  word.  But  it  re- 
sulted next  year  in  more  cabins  on  the  hillsides  and  in  the 


THE    FIDDLE    AND   THE    BOW  33 

hollows,  and  in  the  years  that  followed  the  cabins  were  full  of 
candy-haired  children  who  grew  up  into  a  race  of  the  best, 
the  bravest,  and  the  noblest  people  the  sun  in  heaven  ever  shone 
upon. 

In  the  bright,  bright  hereafter,  when  all  the  joys  of  all  the 
ages  are  gathered  up  and  condensed  into  globules  of  transcendent 
ecstasy,  I  doubt  whether  there  will  be  anything  half  so  sweet 
as  w^ere  the  candy-smeared,  ruby  lips  of  the  country  maidens 
to  the  jeans- jacketed  swains  who  tasted  them  at  the  candy  pull- 
ing in  the  happy  long  ago: 

In  the  happy  long  ago, 

When  I  used  to  draw  the  bow 

At  the  old  log  cabin  hearthstone  all  aglow. 

Oh,  the  fiddle  laughed  and  sung, 

And  the  puncheons  fairly  rung 
With  the  clatter  of  the  shoe  soles  long  ago. 

Oh,  the  merry  swings  and  whirls 

Of  the  happy  boys  and  girls 

In  the  good  old-time  cotillion  long  ago. 

Oh,  they  danced  the  highland  fling, 

And  they  cut   the  pigeon   wing, 
To  the  music  of  the  fiddle  and  the  bow. 

But  the  mischief  and  the  mirth, 

And  the  frolics  'round  the  hearth, 

And  the  flitting  of  the  shadows  to  and  fro. 

Like  a  dream,  have  passed  away — 

Now  I'm  growing  old  and  gray, 
And  I'll  soon  hang  up  the  fiddle  and  the  bow. 

When  a  few  more  notes  I've  made, 

When  a  few  more  tunes  I've  played, 

I'll  be  sleeping  where  the  snowy  daisies  grow, 

But  my  griefs  will  all  be  o'er 

When  I  reach  the  happy  shore, 
Where  I'll  greet  the  friends  who  loved  me  long  ago. 

Oh,  how  sweet,  how  precious  to  us  all  are  the  memories  of 
the  happy  long  ago ! 


THE    BANQUET. 

Let  us  leave  the  "eggflip"  of  the  country  dance  and  take  a 
boAvl  of  eggnog  at  the  banquet.  It  was  a  modern  banquet  for 
men  only.  Music  flowed,  w4ne  sparkled,  the  night  was  far 
spent,  it  was  in  the  wee  sma'  hours.     The  banquet  was  given 


34  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

by  Col.  Pimk,  Avho  was  the  promoter  of  a  town  boom  and  who 
had  persuaded  the  banqueters  that  there  were  "millions  in  it." 
He  had  purchased  some  old  sedge  fields  on  the  outskirts  of 
creation  from  an  old  squatter  on  the  domain  of  Dixie  at  three 
dollars  an  acre,  and  had  stocked  them  at  three  hundred  dollars 
an  acre.  The  old  squatter  was  a  partner  with  the  Colonel  and, 
with  his  part  of  the  boodle  nicely  done  up  in  his  wallet,  he  was 
present  with  buoyant  hopes  and  feelings  high.  Countless  yarns 
were  spun.  ISTumberless  jokes  passed  'round  the  table  until,  in 
the  ecstasy  of  their  joy,  the  banqueters  rose  from  the  table  and 
clinked  their  glasses  together  and  sang  in  chorus : 

"Landlord,  fill  the  flowing  bowl 

Until   it  doth   run   over; 
For  tonight  we'll  merry,  merry  be — 
For  tonight  we'll  merry,  merry  be — 

And    tomorrow    we'll    get    sober." 

The  whole  banquet  was  drunk  (as  banquets  usually  are), 
and  the  principal  stockholders  finally  succumbed  to  the  music 
of  "old  Kentucky  Bourbon,"  and  sank  quietly  to  sleep  under 
the  table.  The  last  toast  on  the  program  was  announced.  It 
was  a  wonderful  toast — "our  mineral  resources!"  The  old 
squatter  rose,  in  his  glory,  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
to  respond  to  this  toast,  and  thus  he  responded : 

"Mr.  Chairman  and  Gentlemen  of  the  Banquet:  I  have 
never  made  mineralogy  a  study,  nor  zoology,  nor  geology,  nor 
any  other  kind  of  "  'ology,"  but  if  tha  haint  m-i-n-e-r-1  in  the 
deestrick  which  you  gen'lmen  have  jist  purchased  from  me  at 
sitch  magnifercent  figers,  then  the  imagination  of  man  is  a  de- 
ception and  a  snare.  But,  gen'lemen,  you  caint  expect  to  find 
m-i-n-e-r-1  without  plenty  uv  diggin'.  I  have  been  diggin'  thar 
for  the  past  forty  year  fur  it,  and  haint  never  struck  it  yit.  I 
hope  you  gen'lmen  will  find  it  some  time  endurin'  the  next  forty 
year."  Here,  with  winks  and  blinks  and  clenched  teeth,  the 
old  Colonel  pulled  his  coat  tail.  He  was  spoiling  the  town 
boom,  but  he  would  not  down.  He  continued  in  the  same  elo- 
quent strain :  "Gen'lmen,  you  caint  expect  to  find  m-i-n-e-r-1 
without  plenty  uv  diggin'.  You  caint  expect  to  find  JSTOTHIN' 
in  this  world  'thout  plenty  uv  diggin'.  If  old  Vanderbilt  hadn't 
a-becn  persevering  in  his  perticklor  kind  o'  diggin'  whar  would 


THE    FIDDLE   AND   THE   BOW  35 

he  be  today?  He  wouldn't  now  be  a  rich  man,  a-ridin'  the 
billers  of  old  ocean  in  his  magnifercent  'yatchett.'  If  I  hadn't 
a-been  perseverin'  an'  hadn't  a-kep  on  a-diggin',  whar  would 
I  have  been  today?  I  might  have  been  seated  like  you, 
gen'lmen,  at  this  stupendous  banquet  with  my  pockets  full  o' 
watered  stock,  and  some  other  old  American  citizen  mout  have 
been  deliverin'  this  eulogy  on  our  m-i-n-e-r-1  resources.  Gen'lmen. 
my  injunction  to  you  is  never  to  stop  diggin'.  And  while  you're 
a-diggin',  cultivate  a  love  for  the  beautiful,  the  true  and  the 
good.  Speakin'  of  the  true  an'  the  beautiful,  gen'lmen,  let  us 
not  forgit  woman  at  this  magnifercent  banquet.  0,  woman, 
woman,  woman  !  When  the  mornin'  stars  sung  together  for  joy — 
and  woman — God  bless  'er.  Great  God,  feller  citerzens,  caint 
you  understand!"  At  the  close  of  this  gi-eat  speech  the  curtain 
fell  to  slow  music  and  there  was  a  panic  in  land  stocks. 


THE   MUSIC   OF   POLITICS. 


There  is  music  all  around  us — there  is  music  everywhere. 
There  is  no  music  so  sweet  to  the  American  ear  as  the  music 
of  politics.  There  is  nothing  that  heats  the  zeal  of  a  modem 
patriot  to  a  whiter  heat  than  the  prospect  of  an  office.  There 
is  nothing  that  cools  it  off  so  quickly  as  the  fading-out  of  that 
prospect. 

I  stood  on  the  stump  in  Tennessee  as  a  candidate  for  Gov- 
ernor, and  thus  I  cut  my  eagle  loose:  "Fellow  Citizens:  We 
live  in  the  grandest  country  in  the  world.  It  stretches  from 
Maine's  dark  pines  and  crags  of  snow  to  where  magnolia 
breezes  blow.  It  stretches  from  the  Atlantic  Ocean  on  the  east 
to  the  Pacific  Ocean  on  the  west,"  and  an  old  fellow  jumped 
up  in  my  crowd  and  threw  his  hat  in  the  air  and  shouted,  "Let 
her  stretch,  durn  her;  hurrah  for  the  Dimocrat  party!" 

An  old  Dutchman  had  a  beautiful  boy  of  whom  he  was 
very  proud,  and  he  decided  to  find  out  the  bent  of  his  mind. 
He  adopted  a  very  novel  method  by  which  to  test  him.  He 
slipped  into  the  little  fellow's  room  one  morning  and  placed 
on  his  table  a  Bible,  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  a  silver  dollar. 
"ISTow,"  said  he,  "ven  dot  boy  comes  in  ef  he  dakes  dot  dollar 
he's  goin'  to  be  a  beeznis  man ;  of  he  dakes  dot  Bible  he'll  be  a 


36  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

breacher ;  ef  he  dakes  dot  whiskey  he's  no  goot,  he's  going  to  be 
a  drunkard."  And  he  hid  behind  the  door  to  see  which  his  son 
would  choose.  In  came  the  boy  whistling.  He  ran  up  to  the 
table  and  picked  up  the  dollar  and  put  it  into  his  pocket;  he 
picked  up  the  Bible  and  put  it  under  his  arm;  he  snatched  up 
the  bottle  of  whiskey  and  took  two  or  three  drinks  and  went  out 
smacking  his  lips.  The  old  Dutchman  poked  his  head  out  from 
behind  the  door  and  exclaimed,  "Mein  Gott,  he's  goin'  to  be  a 
bolitician." 

There  is  no  music  like  the  music  of  political  discussion.  1 
have  heard  almost  a  thousand  political  discussions.  I  heard 
the  gTeat  debate  between  Blaine  and  Ben  Hill;  I  heard  the 
angry  colloquies  between  Roscoe  Conklin  and  Lamar;  I  have 
heard  them  on  down  to  the  humblest  in  the  land.  But  I  pre- 
fer to  give  you  a  scrap  of  one  which  occurred  in  my  own  native 
mountains.  It  was  a  race  for  the  Legislature  in  a  mountain 
county  between  a  straight  Democrat  and  a  straight  Kepub- 
lican.  The  mountaineers  had  gathered  at  the  county  site  to 
witness  the  great  debate.  The  Eepublican  spoke  first.  He  was 
about  six  feet  two  in  his  socks,  as  slim  as  a  bean  pole,  with  a 
head  about  the  size  of  an  ordinary  tin  cup  and  very  bald,  and 
he  lisped.  Webster  in  all  his  glory  in  the  United  States  Senate 
never  appeared  half  so  gTeat  or  half  so  wise.  Thus  he  opened 
the  debate : 

"F-e-1-l-o-w  T-h-i-t-h-i-t-h-e-n-s :  I  come  befo'  you  today  ath 
a  Republikin  candidate  for  to  reprethent  you  in  the  lower 
branth  of  the  Legithlature,  and,  fellow  thitithens,  ef  I  thould 
thay  thumpthin'  conthernin'  my  own  carreckter  I  hope  you  will 
excuthe  me.  I  sprung  from  one  of  the  'umblest  cabins  in  all 
this  lovely  land  uv  thweet  liberty  and  many  a  mornin'  I  have 
jumped  out  o'  my  little  trundle  bed  on  to  the  puncheon  floor 
and  pulled  the  thplintertli  and  the  bark  off  uv  the  wall  of  our 
'umble  cabin  for  to  make  a  fire  for  my  weakly  parenth.  Fel- 
low thitithens,  I  never  had  no  chance.  All  that  I  am  today  I 
owe  to  my  own  exerthions,  and  that  ain't  all.  When  the  cloud 
of  war  thwept  like  a  bethom  uv  dethructhion  over  thith  land  uv 
thweet  liberty,  me  and  my  connecthion  thouldered  our  muthkets 
and  marched  forth  on  the  bloody  field  of  battle  to  fight  for 


THE   FIDDLE   AND   THE    BOW  37 

your  thweet  liberty!  Fellow  thitithens,  ef  you  can  trust  me 
in  the  capathity  uv  a  tholdier,  caint  you  trutht  me  in  the 
capathity  uv  the  Legithlature  ?  I  ath  my  ol'  Dimicrat  com- 
petitor fur  to  tell  you  "whar  he  wuth  when  war  thuck  thith 
continent  from  its  thenter  to  its  thircumpus !  I  have  put  thith 
quethion  to  him  on  every  stump  and  he's  as  thilent  as  an  oyther. 
Fellow  thithithens,  I  am  a  Republican  from  principle.  I  be- 
lieve in  everything  the  Republican  party  hath  ever  done  and 
everything  it  ever  expects  to  do.  Fellow  thitithens,  I  am  in 
favor  of  a  high  protective  tariff  for  the  protection  of  our  infant 
industries,  which  are  only  a  hundred  years  old,  and,  fellow 
thitithens,  I  am  in  favor  of  paying  of  a  pension  to  every  soldier 
that  fit  in  the  Federal  army  while  he  lives,  and  after  he's  dead 
I'm  in  favor  of  payin'  of  it  to  his  executor  or  his  adminis- 
trator!" 

He  took  his  seat  amid  great  applause  on  the  Republican 
side  of  the  house,  and  the  old  Democrat,  who  was  a  much  older 
man,  came  forward  like  a  roaring  lion  to  join  issue  in  the 
great  debate,  and  thus  he  "joined" : 

Feller  Citerzens:  I  come  afore  you  as  a  Dimicrat  cander- 
date  for  to  ripresent  you  in  the  lower  branch  of  the  house  of 
the  Ligislater,  an'  fust  an'  fomust  hit  it  becomes  my  duty  fer 
to  tell  you  whar  I  stand  on  the  great  questons  which  is  now 
a-agitatin'  of  the  public  mind!  Fust  an'  fomust,  feller  citer- 
zerns,  I  am  a  Dimicrat,  inside  an'  out,  up  one  side  an'  down 
tother,  independent,  defatigally.  My  competitor  axes  me  whar 
I  wuz  endurin'  the  war.  Hit's  none  of  his  bizness  whar  I  wuz. 
He  sez  he  wuz  a-fightin'  fer  yore  sweet  liberty.  If  he  didn't 
have  no  more  sense  than  to  stan'  before  them  thar  drotted  bung- 
shells  an'  cannin  that's  his  bizness,  an'  hit's  my  bizness  whar 
I  wuz.  Feller  citerzens,  I  think  I've  answered  him  on  that 
pint.  'Row,  feller  citerzens,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  fur.  I  am 
in  favor  of  payin'  off  this  here  drotted  tariff  an'  stoppin'  it, 
an'  I  am  in  favor  of  coUectin'  jist  enough  of  rivenue  for  to 
run  the  Government  economical  administered,  accordin'  to  Andy 
Jackson  an'  the  Dimicrat  flatform.  My  competitor  never  told 
you  that  he  got  wounded  endurin'  of  the  war.  Whar  did  he 
git  hit  at?     That's  the  pint  in  this  canvass.     He  got  it  in  the 


38  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

back  a-leadin'  of  the  revance  guard  on  the  retreat — that's  whar 
he  got  it,"  This  charge  precipitated  a  personal  encounter  be- 
tween the  candidates  and  the  meeting  broke  up  in  a  general 
battle  with  brackbats  and  tanbark  flying  in  the  air. 

It  would  be  difficult  for  those  reared  amid  the  elegancies  and 
refinements  of  life  in  city  and  town  to  appreciate  the  enjoy- 
ments of  the  gatherings  and  merrymakings  of  the  great  masses 
of  the  people  who  live  in  the  rural  districts  of  our  country.  The 
historian  records  the  deeds  of  the  great;  he  consigns  to  fame 
the  favored  few  but  leaves  unwritten  the  "short  and  simple  an- 
nals of  the  poor,"  the  lives  and  actions  of  the  millions.  The 
modern  millionaire,  as  he  sweeps  through  our  valleys  and  around 
our  hills  in  his  palace  car,  ought  not  to  look  with  derision  on  the 
cabins  of  America,  for  from  their  thresholds  have  come  more 
brains,  and  courage,  and  true  greatness  than  ever  emanated  from 
all  the  palaces  in  this  world.  The  fiddle,  the  rifle,  the  ax  and 
the  Bible,  the  palladium  of  American  liberty,  symbolizing  music, 
prowess,  labor,  and  free  religion,  the  four  grand  forces  of  our 
civilization,  were  the  trusty  friends  and  faithful  allies  of  our 
pioneer  ancestry  in  subduing  the  wilderness  and  erecting  the 
great  commonwealths  of  the  Republic.  Wherever  a  son  of 
freedom  pushed  his  perilous  way  into  the  savage  wilds  and 
erected  his  log  cabin,  these  were  the  cherished  penates  of  his 
humble  domicile — the  rifle  in  the  rack  above  the  door,  the  ax 
in  the  corner,  the  Bible  on  the  table,  and  the  fiddle,  w^ith  its 
streamers  of  ribbon,  hanging  on  the  wall.  Did  he  need  the 
charm  of  music  to  cheer  his  heart,  to  scatter  sunshine  and  drive 
away  melancholy  thoughts  ?  He  touched  the  responsive  strings  of 
his  fiddle  and  it  burst  into  laughter.  Was  he  beset  by  skulking 
savages  or  prowling  beasts  of  prey  ?  He  rushed  to  his  deadly  rifle 
for  protection  and  relief.  Had  he  the  forest  to  fell  and  the 
fields  to  clear?  His  trusty  ax  was  in  his  stalwart  grasp.  Did  he 
need  the  consolation,  the  promises  and  precepts  of  religion  to 
strengthen  his  faith,  to  brighten  his  hope  and  to  anchor  his  soul 
to  God  and  heaven  ?  He  held  sweet  communion  with  the  dear 
old  Bible. 

The  glory  and  streng-th  of  the  Republic  today  are  jts  plain 
working  people. 


THE   FIDDLE   AND   THE    BOW  39 

"Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  and  may  fade; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made, 
But  an  honest  yeomanry — a  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed  can  never  be  supplied." 

Long  live  the  common  people  of  America.     Long  live  the 
Fiddle  and  the  Bow,  the  symbols  of  their  mirth  and  merriment. 


THE   TWO    COLUMNS. 

Music  leads  and  wooes  the  human  race  ever  onward,  and 
there  are  two  columns  that  follow  her.  One  is  the  happy  column, 
ringing  with  laughter  and  song.  Its  line  of  march  is  strewn 
with  roses.  It  is  hedged  on  either  side  by  happy  homes  and 
smiling  faces.  The  other  is  the  column  of  sorrow,  moaning  with 
suffering  and  distress.  I  saw  an  aged  mother  with  her  white 
locks  and  wrinkled  face  swoon  at  the  Governor's  feet;  I  saw 
old  men  tottering  on  the  staff  with  broken  hearts  and  tear- 
stained  faces,  and  I  heard  them  plead  for  their  wayward  boys ; 
I  saw  a  wife  and  seven  children,  clad  in  rags  and  barefooted,  in 
midwinter,  fall  upon  their  knees  around  him  who  held  the  par- 
doning power ;  I  saw  a  little  girl  climb  upon  the  Governor's  knee 
and  put  her  arms  around  his  neck ;  I  heard  her  ask  him  if  he  had 
little  girls;  then  I  saw  her  sob  upon  his  bosom  as  though  her 
little  heart  would  break  and  heard  her  plead  for  mercy  for  her 
poor,  miserable,  wretched  convict  father.  I  saw  want  and  woe 
and  poverty  and  trouble  and  distress  and  suffering  and  agony 
and  anguish  march  in  solemn  procession  before  the  Guberna- 
torial door,  and  I  said,  "Let  the  critics  frown  and  rail,  let  this 
heartless  Avorld  condemn,  but  he  who  hath  power  and  doth  not 
temper  justice  with  mercy  will  cry  in  vain  himself  for  mercy 
on  that  great  day  when  the  two  columns  shall  meet.  For,  thank 
God,  the  stream  of  happy  humanity  that  rolls  on  like  a  gleaming 
river,  and  the  stream  of  the  suffering  and  distressed  and  ruined 
of  this  earth,  both  empty  into  the  same  great  ocean  of  eternity 
and  mingle  like  the  waters,  and  there  is  a  God  who  shall  judge 
the  merciful  and  the  unmerciful." 


46  LECTURES  OF   ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

THERE  IS  A  MELODY  FOR  EVERY  EAR. 

The  multitudinous  harmonies  of  this  world  differ  in  pathos 
and  pitch  as  the  stars  differ  one  from  another  in  glory.  There 
is  a  style  for  every  taste,  a  melody  for  every  ear.  The  gabble 
of  geese  is  music  to  the  goose.  The  hoot  of  the  hoot-owl  is  love- 
lier to  his  mate  than  the  nightingale's  lay.  The  concert  of 
Signor  "Tomasso  Cataline"  and  Mademoiselle  "Pussy"  awak- 
eneth  the  growling  old  bachelor  from  his  dreams  and  he  throweth 
his  bouquets  of  bootjacks  and  superannuated  footgear.  The 
peripatetic  gentleman  from  Italy  asks  no  loftier  strain  than  the 
tune  of  his  hand  organ  and  the  jingle  of  the  nickels,  "the  tribute 
of  the  Caesars."  The  downy-lipped  boy  counts  the  explosion  of 
a  kiss  on  the  cheek  of  his  darling  "Dulcinea  del  Toboso'' 
sweeter  than  an  echo  from  paradise ;  and  it  is  said  that  older 
folks  like  its  music.  The  tintinnabulations  of  the  wife's  curtain 
lecture  are  too  precious  to  the  enraptured  husband  to  be  shared 
with  other  ears.  And  in  the  hush  of  the  bedtime  hour,  when 
tired  daddies  are  seeking  repose  in  the  oblivion  of  sleep,  the  un- 
earthly "bangs"  on  the  grand  piano  below  in  the  parlor,  and 
the  unearthly  screams  and  yells  of  the  budding  prima  donna,  as 
she  sings  to  her  admiring  beau: 

"Men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I   go   on   forever — evoor — evoor-r-r-r — 
I  go  on  for  evoor — evoor."' 

It  is  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  "nightmare"  forever. 


MUSIC    IS    THE   WINE    OF   THE    SOUL. 

Music  is  the  wine  of  the  soul.  It  is  the  exhilaration  of  the 
palace;  it  is  the  joy  of  the  humblest  home;  it  sparkles  and 
glows  in  the  banquet  hall;  it  is  the  inspiration  of  the  church. 
Music  inspires  every  gradation  of  himianity,  from  the  orang- 
outang and  the  cane-sucking  dude  with  the  single  eyeglass  up 
to  MAN. 

There  was  a  "sound  of  revelry  by  night,"  where  youth  and 
beauty  were  gathered  in  the  excitement  of  the  raging  ball.  The 
ravishing  music  of  the  orchestra  charmed  from  the  street  a  red- 
nosed  old  knight  of  the  demijohn,  and,  uninvited,  he  staggered 


THE   FIDDLE   AND   THE   BOW  4I 

into  the  brilliant  assemblage  and  made  an  effort  to  get  a  partner 
for  the  next  set.  Failing  in  this,  he  concluded  to  exhibit  his 
powers  as  a  dancer,  and  galloped  around  the  hall  till  he  gal- 
loped into  the  arms  of  a  strong  man  who  quickly  ushered  him 
to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  gave  him  a  kick  and  a  push.  He 
went  revolving  down  to  the  street  below  and  fell  flat  of  his  back 
in  the  mud,  but  "truth  crushed  to  earth  wall  rise  again" !  He 
rose,  and,  standing  with  his  back  against  a  lamp-post,  he  looked 
up  into  the  faces  that  were  gazing  down  and  said,  in  an  injured 
tone:  "Gentlemen — hie — you  may  be  able  to  fool  some  folks, 
but — hie — ^you  can't  fool  me — hie.  I  know  what  made  you 
kick  me  down  them  stairs — ^hic,  hie.  You  don't  want  me  up 
there — that's  the  reason !"  So,  life  hath  its  discords  as  well  as 
its  harmonies. 

There  was  music  in  the  magnificent  parlor  of  a  modern  Ches- 
terfield. It  was  thronged  with  elegant  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
The  daughter  of  the  happy  household  was  playing  and  singing 
Verdi's  "Ah,  I  Have  Sighed  to  Rest  Me,"  the  fond  mother  was 
turning  the  pages,  the  loving  father  was  sighing  and  resting 
upstairs,  in  a  state  of  innocuous  desuetude,  produced  by  the 
music  of  old  Kentucky  Bourbon  but  he  could  not  withstand  the 
power  of  the  melody  below.  Quickly  he  donned  his  clothing. 
He  put  his  vest  on  over  his  coat,  put  his  collar  on  backside  fore- 
most, buttoned  the  lower  buttonhole  of  his  coat  on  the  top  but- 
ton, stood  before  the  mirror  and  arranged  his  hair,  and  started 
down  to  see  the  ladies  and  listen  to  the  music.  But  he  stumped 
his  toe  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  slid  do^vn  headforemost  and 
turned  a  somersault  into  the  midst  of  the  astonished  ladies.  The 
ladies  screamed  and  helped  him  to  his  feet,  all  crying  at  once, 
"Are  you  hurt,  Mr.  ^Rickety' — are  you  hurt  ?"  Standing  with 
his  back  against  the  piano  he  exclaimed  in  an  assuring  tone: 
"Why — hie — of  course  not,  ladies.  Go  on  with  yo'  music — hie 
— that's  the  way  I  always  come  down!" 

Two  old  banqueters  banqueted  at  a  banquet.  They  ban- 
queted all  night  long  and  kept  the  banquet  up  together  all  the 
next  day  after  the  banquet  had  ended.  They  kept  up  their  ban- 
quet a  week  after  the  banquet  was  over.  But  they  got  sep- 
arated one  morning  and  met  again  in  the  afternoon.  One  of 
them  said,  "Good  mornin'."     The  other  said,  "Good  evenin'." 

(3) 


42  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

"Why,"  said  one,  "It's  morning  and  that's  the  snn;  I've  inves- 
tigated the  question."  "'No  sir-ee,"  said  the  other,  "you're 
mistaken,  it's  late  in  the  evenin,  and  that's  the  full  moon."  They 
concluded  they  would  have  no  difficulty  about  the  matter  and 
agreed  to  leave  it  to  the  first  gentleman  they  came  to,  to  settle 
the  question.  They  locked  arms  and  started  down  the  street 
together.  They  staggered  on  till  they  came  upon  another  gen- 
tleman in  the  same  condition  hanging  on  a  lamp-post.  One  of 
them  approached  him  and  said :  "Friend — hie — we  don't  desire 
to  interfere  with  your  meditation — hie — but  this  gen'lmen  says 
it's  mornin',  an'  that's  the  sun ;  I  say  it's  evenin',  that's  the  full 
moon — hie.  We  respectfully  ask  you — hie — to  settle  the  ques- 
tion." The  fellow  stood  and  looked  at  it  for  a  full  minute,  and 
in  his  despair  replied,  "Gentlemen,  you'll  have  to  excuse  me — 
hie — I'm  a  stranger  in  this  town." 


THE  OLD-TIME  SINGING  SCHOOL. 


Did  you  never  hear  the  music  of  the  old-time  singing  school  ? 
Oh,  who  can  forget  the  old  schoolhouse  that  stood  on  the  hill? 
Who  can  forget  the  sweet  little  maidens  with  their  pink  sun- 
bonnets  and  checkered  dresses — the  walks  to  the  spring  and  the 
drinks  of  pure  cold  water  from  the  gourd  ?  Who  can  forget  the 
old-time  courtships  at  the  singing  school  ?  When  the  boy  found 
an  opportunity  he  wrote  these  tender  lines  to  his  sweetheart : 

"The  rose  is  red,  the  violet's  blue — 
Sugar  is  sweet,  and  so  are  you." 

She  read  it  and  blushed,  and  turned  it  over  and  wrote  on 
the  back  of  it: 

"As  sure  as  the  vine  clings  'round  the  stump, 
I'll  be  your  sweet  little  sugar  lump." 

Who  can  forget  the  old-time  singing  master  ?  The  old-time 
singing  master,  with  very  light  hair,  a  dyed  mustache,  a  wart  on 
his  left  eyelid,  and  one  game  leg,  was  the  pride  of  rural  society. 
He  was  the  envy  of  man  and  the  idol  of  woman.  His  baggy 
trousers,  several  inches  too  short,  hung  above  his  toes  like  the 


THE    FIDDLE   AND   THE    BOW  43 

inverted  funnels  of  a  Cunard  steamer.  His  butternut  coat  had 
the  abbreviated  appearance  of  having  been  cut  in  deep  water, 
and  its  collar  encircled  the  back  of  his  head  like  the  belts  of 
Jupiter  and  the  rings  of  Saturn.  His  vest  resembled  the  aurora 
borealis,  and  his  voice  was  a  cross  between  a  cane  mill  and  the 
braj  of  an  ass.  Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood  before  the 
ruddy-faced  swains  and  rose-cheeked  lassies  of  the  country, 
conscious  of  his  charms  and  proud  of  his  great  ability.  He  had 
prepared,  after  a  long  and  tedious  research  of  Webster's  Un- 
abridged Dictionary,  a  speech  which  he  always  delivered  to  his 
class. 

"Boys  and  girls,"  he  would  say,  "Music  is  a  conglomera- 
tion of  pleasing  sounds,  or  a  succession  or  combination  of 
simultaneous  sounds,  modulated  in  accordance  with  harmony. 
Harmony  is  the  sociability  of  two  or  more  musical  strains. 
Melody  denotes  the  pleasing  combustion  of  musical  and  meas- 
ured sounds  as  they  succeed  each  other  in  transit.  The  ele- 
ments of  vocal  music  consist  of  seven  original  tones,  which 
constitute  the  diatonic  scale,  together  with  its  steps  and  half- 
steps,  the  whole  being  compromised  in  ascending  notes  and  half 
notes,  thus: 

"Do-ra-mi-fa-sol-la-si-do, 
Do-si-la-sol-fa-mi-ra-do." 

"!N"ow,  the  diapason  is  the  ad  interium,  or  interval  betwixt 
and  between  the  extremes  of  an  octavo,  according  to  the  dia- 
tonic scale.  The  turns  of  music  consist  of  the  appogeaturas, 
which  is  the  principal  note,  or  that  on  which  the  turn  is  made, 
together  with  the  note  above  and  the  semi-tone  below — the  note 
above  being  sounded  first,  the  principal  note  next,  and  the  semi- 
tone below  last — the  three  being  performed  sticatoly,  or  very 
quickly.  'Now,  if  you  will  keep  these  simple  propersitions  clear 
in  your  physical  minds,  there  is  no  power  under  the  broad 
canister  of  heaven  which  can  prevent  you  from  becoming  suc- 
cinctly contaminated  with  the  primary  and  elementary  rudi- 
ments of  music.  With  these  few  sanguinary  remarks  we  will 
now  proceed  to  diagnosticate  the  exercises  of  the  mornin'  hour. 
Please  turn  to  page  thirty-four  of  the  Southern  Harmony. 
(And  we  turned.)     You  will  discover  that  this  beautiful  piece 


44  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

of  music  is  written  in  four-four  time,  beginning  on  the  down- 
ward beat.  I^ow,  take  the  sound — sol-mi-do.  All  in  unison — 
one,  two,  three,  sing: 

"Sol-soI-mi-fa-sol-Ia-sol-fa-ra-ra-ra, 
Ra-mi-f  a- ra-mi- fa-sol- fa-mi-do-do-do, 
Si-do-ra-ra-ra-ra-mi-do-si-do-ra-do-si-la-sol, 
Si-do-ra-ra-mi-fa-sol-la-sol-fa-mi-do-do-do." 


THE  GKAND  OPERA. 


I  heard  a  great  Italian  tenor  sing  in  the  grand  opera,  and 
O  how  like  the  dew  on  the  flowers  is  the  memory  of  his  song. 
He  was  playing  the  role  of  a  broken-hearted  lover  in  the  opera 
of  the  "Bohemian  Girl."  I  can  only  repeat  it  as  it  impressed 
me,  an  humble  young  man  from  the  mountains  who  never  before 
had  heard  the  grand  opera : 

"When  othaer  leeps  and  othaer  hairts 

Their  tales  of  luflF  shoU  tell, 
In  longwige  whose  excess  impairts 

The  power  they  feel  so  well. 
There  may,  perchance,  in  such  a  scene, 

Some  r-r-r-re-co-lec-tion  be 
Auf  days  thot  halve  os  hop-pee  bean — 

Then  you'll   re-mem-b-a-e-r  me-e-e-e-e — 
Then  you'll  re-mem-ba-e-r — 
You'll    r-r-r-re-mem-b-a-e-r-r-r-r    me-e-e-e-e." 


MUSIC. 

The  spirit  of  music,  like  an  archangel,  presides  over  mankind 
and  the  visible  creation.  Her  afflatus,  divinely  sweet,  divinely 
powerful,  is  breathed  on  every  human  heart,  and  inspires  every 
soul  to  some  nobler  sentiment,  some  higher  thought,  some 
greater  action. 

O  music!  Sweetest,  sublimest  ideal  of  omniscience — first- 
born of  God — fairest  and  loftiest  seraph  of  the  celestial  hier- 
archy, muse  of  the  beautiful — daughter  of  the  Universe ! 

In  the  morning  of  eternity,  when  the  stars  were  young,  her 
first  grand  oratorio  burst  upon  raptured  Deity  and  thrilled  the 
wondering  angels.  All  heaven  shouted.  Ten  thousand  times 
ten  thousand  jeweled  harps,  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand 


THE   FIDDLE   A,ND   THE    BOW  45 

angel  tongues  caught  up  the  song,  and  ever  since,  through  all 
the  golden  cycles,  its  breathing  melodies,  old  as  eternity  yet  ever 
new  as  the  flitting  hours,  have  floated  on  the  air  of  heaven,  lin- 
gering like  the  incense  of  its  flowers  on  plumed  hill  and  shining 
vale,  empurpled  in  the  shadow  of  the  eternal  throne. 

The  seraph  stood  with  outstretched  wings  on  the  horizon  of 
heaven  clothed  in  light,  ablaze  with  gems  and,  with  voice 
attuned,  swept  her  burning  harpstrings,  and  lo,  the  blue  infinite 
thrilled  with  her  sweetest  note.  The  trembling  stars  heard  it 
and  flashed  their  joy  from  every  flaming  center.  The  wheeling 
orbs  that  course  the  crystal  paths  of  space  were  vibrant  with 
the  strain  and  pealed  it  back  into  the  glad  ear  of  God.  The  far- 
off  milky  way,  bright  gulf  stream  of  astral  glories,  spanning  the 
ethereal  deep,  resounded  with  its  harmonies,  and  the  star-dust 
isles,  floating  in  that  river  of  opal,  re-echoed  the  happy  chorus 
from  every  sparkling  strand. 


THE  PARADISE  OF  FOOLS 


i 


THE  PARADISE  OF  FOOLS 

MAN^S  FIRST  ESTATE. 

Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  wealth  that  perished  when 
Paradise  was  lost?  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  glory  of 
Eden,  the  first  estate  of  man  ?  I  think  it  was  the  very  dream 
of  God,  glowing  wath  ineffable  beauty.  I  think  it  was  rimmed 
with  blue  mountains,  from  whose  moss-covered  cliffs  leaped  a 
thousand  glassy  streams  that  spread  out  in  midair,  like  bridal 
veils,  kissing  a  thousand  rainbows  from  the  sun.  I  think  it 
was  an  archipelago  of  gorgeous  colors,  flecked  with  gi*een  isles, 
where  the  grape-vine  staggered  from  tree  to  tree  as  if  drunk 
with  the  wine  of  its  own  purple  clusters — where  peach  and  plum 
and  blood-red  cherries  and  every  kind  of  berry  bent  bough 
and  bush  and  shone  like  showered  drops  of  ruby  and  of  pearl. 
I  think  it  was  a  wilderness  of  flowers  redolent  of  eternal  spring 
and  pulsing  with  bird-song,  where  dappled  fawns  played  on 
banks  of  violets,  where  leopards,  peaceful  and  tame,  lounged  in 
copses  of  magnolias;  where  harmless  tigers  lay  on  snowy  beds 
of  lilies,  and  lions,  lazy  and  gentle,  panted  in  jungles  of  roses. 
I  think  its  billowy  landscapes  were  festooned  with  tangling 
creepers,  bright  with  perennial  bloom  and  curtained  with  sweet- 
scented  groves;  where  the  orange  and  the  pomegranate  hung 
like  golden  globes  and  ruddy  moons.  I  think  its  air  was  softened 
with  the  dreamy  haze  of  perpetual  summer,  and  through  its 
midst  there  flowed  a  translucent  river,  alternately  gleaming  in 
its  sunshine  and  darkening  in  its  shadows.  And  there,  in  some 
sweet,  dusky  bower,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  his  Creator,  slept 
Adam,  the  first  of  the  human  race,  God-like  in  form  and  feature. 
God-like  in  all  the  attributes  of  mind  and  soul.  'No  monarch 
ever  slept  on  softer,  sweeter  couch,  with  richer  curtains  drawn 
about  him.  And  as  he  slept,  a  face  and  form,  half -hidden,  half- 
revealed,  red-lipped,  rose-cheeked,  white-bosomed,  and  with 
tresses  of  gold,  smiled  like  an  angel  from  the  mirror  of  his 
dream ;  for  a  moment  smiled  and  so  sweetly  that  his  heart  almost 
forgot  to  beat.  And  while  yet  this  bright  vision  still  haunted 
his  slumber,  with  tenderest  touch  an  unseen  hand  lay  open  the 


50  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

unconscious  flesh  in  his  side  and  forth  from  the  painless  wound 
a  faultless  being  sprang,  a  being  pure  and  blithesome  as  the  air, 
a  sinless  woman,  God's  first  thought  for  the  happiness  of  man, 
T  think  he  wooed  her  at  the  waking  of  the  morning.  I  think  he 
wooed  her  at  noontide,  down  bj  the  river  side  or  by  the  spring 
in  the  dell.  I  think  he  Avooed  her  at  twilight  when  the  moon 
silvered  the  palm  tree's  feathery  plumes  and  the  stars  looked 
down  and  the  nightingale  sang.  And  wherever  he  wooed  her  I 
think  the  grazing  herds  left  sloping  hill  and  peaceful  vale  to 
listen  to  the  wooing,  and  thence,  themselves,  departed  in  pairs. 
The  covies  heard  it  and  mated  in  the  fields ;  the  quail  wooed  his 
love  in  the  wheat;  the  robin  whistled  to  his  love  in  the  glen: 

"The  lark  was  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 
The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above. 
That  he  sang,  and  he  sang,  and  forever  sang  he: 
I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me." 

Love  songs  bubbled  from  the  mellow  throats  of  mocking 
birds  and  bobolinks;  dove  cooed  love  to  dove,  and  I  think  the 
maiden  monkey,  fair  "Juliet"  of  the  house  of  Orangoutang, 
waited  on  her  cocoanut  balcony  for  the  coming  of  her  "Romeo," 
and  thus  plaintively  sang: 

"My  sweetheart's  the  lovely  Baboon — 
I'm  going  to  marry  him  soon ; 
'Twould  fill  me  with  joy 
Just  to  kiss  the  dear  boy. 
For  his  charms  and  his  beauty 
"I'll  sit  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
No  power  can  destroy. 

And  sing  to  my  darling  Baboon, 

When  I'm  safe  by  his  side 

And  he  calls  me  his  bride — 
Oh,  my  Angel,  my  precious  Baboon." 

All  Paradise  was  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  love.  O  that 
it  could  have  remained  so  forever!  There  was  not  a  painted 
cheek  in  Eden,  nor  a  bald  head,  nor  a  false  tooth,  nor  a  bach- 
elor. There  was  not  a  flounce,  nor  a  frill,  nor  a  silken  gown, 
nor  a  flashy  waist  with  aurora  borealis  sleeves.  There  was  not 
a  curl  paper,  nor  even  a  threat  of  crinoline.  Raiment  was  an 
afterthought,  the  mask  of  a  tainted  soul  born  of  original  sin. 


THE   PARADISE   OF   FOOLS  5 1 

Beauty  was  unmarred  by  gaudy  rags;  Eve  was  dressed  in  sun- 
shine, Adam  was  clad  in  climate.  Every  rich  blessing  within 
the  gift  of  the  Almighty  Father  was  poured  out  from  the  cornu- 
copia of  heaven  into  the  lap  of  Paradise.  But  it  was  a  paradise 
of  fools,  because  they  stained  it  with  disobedience  and  polluted 
it  with  sin.  It  was  the  Paradise  of  Fools  because,  in  the  exer- 
cise of  their  own  God-given  free  agency,  they  tasted  the  for- 
bidden fruit  and  fell  from  their  glorious  estate.  O,  what  a  fall 
was  there !  It  was  the  fall  of  innocence  and  purity ;  it  was  the 
fall  of  happiness  into  the  abyss  of  woe;  it  was  the  fall  of  life 
into  the  arms  of  death.  It  was  like  the  fall  of  the  wounded  alba- 
tross, from  the  regions  of  light  into  the  sea ;  it  was  like  the  fall 
of  a  star  from  heaven  to  hell.  When  the  jasper  gate  forever 
closed  behind  the  guilty  pair,  and  the  flaming  sword  of  the 
Lord  mounted  guard  over  the  barred  portal,  the  whole  life- 
current  of  the  human  race  was  shifted  into  another  channel, 
shifted  from  the  roses  to  the  thorns,  shifted  from  joy  to  sorrow ; 
and  it  bore  upon  its  dark  and  turbulent  bosom  the  wrecked  hopes 
of  all  the  ages. 

I  believe  they  lost  intellectual  powers  which  fallen  man  has 
never  regained.  Operating  by  the  consent  of  natural  laws, 
sinless  man  would  have  wrought  endless  miracles.  The  mind, 
winged  like  a  seraph  and  armed  like  a  thunderbolt,  would  have 
breached  the  very  citadel  of  knowledge  and  robbed  it  of  its 
treasures.  I  think  they  lost  a  plane  of  being  only  a  little  lower 
than  the  angels ;  I  believe  they  lost  youth,  beauty  and  physical 
immortality;  I  believe  they  lost  the  virtues  of  heart  and  soul 
and  many  of  the  magnificent  powers  of  mind  which  made  them 
the  images  of  God,  and  which  would  have  even  brushed  aside 
the  now  impenetrable  veil  which  hides  from  mortal  eyes  the 
face  of  Infinite  Love,  that  love  which  gave  the  ever-blessed  light 
and  filled  the  earth  with  music  of  bird  and  breeze  and  sea ;  that 
love  whose  melodies  we  sometimes  faintly  catch,  like  spirit 
voices,  from  the  souls  of  orators  and  poets;  that  love  which 
inlaid  the  arching  firmament  of  heaven  with  jewels  sparkling 
with  eternal  fires. 

But,  thank  God,  their  fall  was  not  like  the  remediless  fall 
of  Lucifer  and  his  angels,  into  eternal  darkness.  Thank  God, 
in  this  "night  of  death,"  hope  does  see  a  star.    It  is  the  star  of 


52  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L,   TAYLOR 

BetMehem.     Thank  God,   "listening  love"  DOES   "hear  the 
rustle  of  a  wing."    It  is  the  wing  of  the  resurrection  angel. 

The  memories  and  images  of  Paradise  Lost  have  been  im- 
pressed on  every  human  heart,  and  every  individual  of  the  race 
has  his  own  ideal  of  that  paradise,  from  the  cradle  to  the  gTave. 
But  that  ideal,  in  so  far  as  its  realization  in  this  world  is  con- 
cerned, is  like  the  rainbow,  an  elusive  phantom,  ever  in  sight, 
never  in  reach,  resting  ever  on  the  horizon  of  hope. 


THE   PARADISE   OF   CHILDHOOD, 


I  saw  a  blue-eyed  child,  with  sunny  curls,  toddling  on  the 
lawn  before  the  door  of  a  happy  home.  He  toddled  under  the 
trees,  prattling  to  the  birds  and  playing  with  the  ripening  apples 
that  fell  upon  the  ground.  He  toddled  among  the  roses  and 
plucked  their  leaves  as  he  would  have  plucked  an  angel's  wing, 
strewing  their  glory  upon  the  green  grass  at  his  feet.  He  chased 
the  butterflies  from  flower  to  flower  and  shouted  with  glee  as 
they  eluded  his  grasp  and  sailed  away  on  the  summer  air.  Here 
I  thought  his  childish  fancy  had  built  a  paradise  and  peopled  it 
with  dainty  seraphim  and  made  himself  its  Adam.  He  saw  the 
sunshine  of  Eden  glint  on  every  leaf  and  beam  in  every  petal. 
The  flitting  honeybee,  the  wheeling  junebug,the  fluttering  breeze, 
the  silvery  pulse-beat  of  the  dashing  brook  sounded  in  his  ear 
notes  of  its  swelling  music.  The  iris-winged  humming  bird, 
darting  like  a  sunbeam  to  kiss  the  pouting  lips  of  the  upturned 
flowers  was,  to  him,  the  impersonation  of  its  beauty,  and  I  said. 
"Truly,  this  is  the  nearest  approach  in  this  world  to  the  Paradise 
of  long  ago."  Then  I  saw  him  skulking  like  a  cupid  in  the 
shrubbery,  his  skirts  bedraggled  and  soiled,  his  face  downcast 
Avith  guilt.  He  had  stirred  up  the  Mediterranean  Sea  in  the 
slop  bucket  and  waded  the  Atlantic  Ocean  in  a  mudpuddle.  He 
had  capsized  the  goslings  and  shipwrecked  the  young  ducks 
and  drowned  the  kitten,  which  he  imagined  a  whale,  and  I  said. 
"There  is  the  original  Adam  coming  to  the  surface."  "Lo'd 
bless  my  soul,  jis  look  at  dat  chile !"  shouted  his  dusky  old  nurse, 
as  she  lifted  him,  dripping,  from  the  reeking  pond.  "What's 
you  bin  doin'  in  dat  mudpuddle?  Look  at  dat  face  an'  dem 
hands  an'  close  all  kivered  wid  mud  an'  mulberry  juice!     You 


THE   PARADISE   OF    FOOLS  53 

I 

bettah  not  let  yo'  mammy  see  you  while  you's  in  dat  fix !  You'a 
gwine  to  ketch  it  sho' !  You's  jis'  zackly  like  yo'  fader,  allers 
gittin'  into  some  scrape  or  nuddah — allers  breakin'  into  some 
kin'  uv  devilment — gwine  to  break  into  Congrus  some  o'  dese 
days  sho'.  Come  along  wid  me  dis  instinct  to  de  bafftub — I's 
a-gwine  to  dispurgate  dem  close  an'  'lucidate  some  uv  dat  duyat 
off'n  dat  face  uv  yone,  you  trifling  rascal,  you."  And  so  saying, 
she  carried  him  away,  kicking  and  screaming  like  a  young  sav- 
age in  open  rebellion,  and  I  said,  "There  is  some  more  of  the 
original  Adam."  Then  I  saw  him  come  forth  again,  washed 
and  combed  and  dressed  in  spotless  white,  like  a  young  butterfly 
fresh  from  its  chrysalis.  And  when  he  got  a  chance  I  saw  him 
slip  on  his  tiptoes  into  the  pantry — 

I  heard  the  clink  of  glassware, 
As  if  a  mouse  were  playing  there, 

among  the  jam  pots  and  preserves.  There  two  little  dimpled 
hands  made  trip  after  trip  to  a  rose-colored  mouth,  bearing 
burdens  of  mingling  sweets  that  dripped  from  cheek  and  chin 
and  waist  and  shoes  and  skirt,  subduing  the  snowy  white  with 
the  amber  of  the  peach  and  the  purple  of  the  raspberry  as  he  ate 
the  forbidden  fruit.  Then  I  watched  him  glide  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, there  was  a  crash  and  a  thud  in  there  which  quickly 
brought  his  frightened  mother  to  the  scene  only  to  find  the  young 
rascal  standing  there  catching  his  breath,  while  streams  of  cold 
ink  trickled  down  his  drenched  bosom,  and  as  he  wiped  his 
inky  face,  which  grew  blacker  with  every  wipe,  the  remainder 
of  the  ink  was  pouring  from  the  bottle  onto  the  carpet  and 
making  a  map  of  darkest  Africa.  Then  the  rear  of  a  small  skirt 
went  up  over  a  curly  head  and  the  avenging  slipper,  in  lightning 
strokes,  kept  time  to  the  music  in  the  air,  and  I  said,  "There  is 
Paradise  Lost."  The  sympathizing,  half -angry  old  nurse  bore 
her  weeping,  sobbing  charge  to  the  nursery  and  there  bound  up 
his  broken  heart  and  soothed  him  to  sleep  with  her  old-time 
lullaby : 

"Oh,  don't  you  cry,  little  baby — Oh,  don't  you  cry  no  mo', 
For  it  hurts  ole  mammy's  feelin's  fo'  to  hear  you  weepin'  so — 
Why  don't  dey  keep  temptation  frum  de  littul  ban's  an'  feet — 
What  makes  'em  'buse  de  baby  case  de  jam  an'  zarves  am  sweet? 


54  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

"Oh,  de  sorrow,  tribulations,  dat  de  joys  of  mortals  break — 
Oh  it's  heb'n  when  we  slumber — it's  trouble  when  we  wake. 

"Oh,  go  to  sleep,  my  darlin' — now  close  dem  little  eyes 
An'  dream  ov  de  shinin'  angels  an'  de  blessed  Paradise; 
Oh,  dream  ov  de  blood-red  roses  an'  de  birds  on  snowy  wing; 
Oh,  dream  ov  de  fallin'  wautahs  an'  de  never-endin'  spring. 

"Oh,  de  roses — Oh,  de  rainbows — Oh,  de  music's  gentle  swell, 
In    de    dreamland    ov   little    childun,    whar   de   blessed   sperrits    dwell." 

"Dar  now,  dar  now,  he's  gone.  Bless  its  little  heart,  dej 
treats  it  like  a  dog!"  And  then  she  tucked  him  away  in  the 
paradise  of  his  childish  slumber.  The  day  will  come  when  the 
South  will  build  a  monument  to  the  good  old  black  mammy  of 
the  past  for  the  lullabies  she  has  sung. 

I  sometimes  wish  that  childhood  might  last  forever;  that 
sweet  fairyland  on  the  frontier  of  life  whose  skies  are  first 
lighted  with  the  sunrise  of  the  soul  and  in  whose  bright-tinted 
jungles  the  lions  and  leopards  and  tigers  of  passion  still  peace- 
fully sleep.  The  world  is  disarmed  by  its  innocence,  the  drawn 
bow  is  relaxed,  and  the  arrow  is  returned  to  its  quiver ;  the  aegis 
of  heaven  is  above  it,  the  outstretched  wings  of  mercy,  pity,  and 
measureless  love. 


PAEADISE  OF  THE  BAREFOOTED  BOY. 

I  would  rather  be  a  barefooted  boy,  with  cheeks  of  tan  and 
heart  of  joy,  than  to  be  a  millionaire  and  president  of  a  IsTational 
bank.  The  financial  panic  that  falls  like  a  thunderbolt  wrecks 
the  bank,  crushes  the  banker  and  swamps  thousands  in  an  hour, 
but  the  bank  which  holds  the  treasures  of  the  barefooted  boy 
never  breaks.  With  his  satchel  and  his  books  he  hies  away  to 
school  in  the  morning,  but  his  truant  feet  carry  him  the  other 
v.-ay  to  the  mill  pond  "a-fishin'."  And  there  he  sits  the  livelong 
day  under  the  shade  of  the  tree,  with  sapling  pole  and  pinhook 
and  fishes  and  fishes  and  fishes,  and  waits  for  a  nibble  of  the 
drowsy  sucker  that  sleeps  on  his  oozy  bed,  oblivious  of  the  bate- 
less  hook  from  which  he  has  long  since  stolen  the  worm.  There 
he  sits  and  fishes  and  fishes  and  fishes,  and,  like  Micawber, 
waits  for  something  to  "turn  up."  But  nothing  "turns  up" 
until  the  shadows  of  evening  fall  and  warn  the  truant  home. 


THE   PARADISE   OF    FOOLS  55 

where  he  is  welcomed  with  a  dogwood  sprout.  Then  something 
does  turn  up.  He  obeys  the  call  of  the  Sunday  school  bell  and 
goes  with  solemn  face,  but  e'er  the  "sweet  bye  and  bye"  has 
died  away  on  the  summer  air  he  is  in  the  woodshed  playing 
Sullivan  and  Corbett  with  some  plucky  comrade  with  the  in- 
evitable casualties  of  one  closed  eye,  one  crippled  nose,  one  pair 
of  torn  breeches  and  one  bloody  toe.  He  takes  a  back  seat  at 
church  and  in  the  midst  of  the  sermon  steals  away  and  hides 
in  the  barn  to  smoke  cigarettes  and  read  the  story  of  "One-eyed 
Pete,  the  hero  of  the  wild  and  woolly  West."  There  is  eternal 
war  between  the  barefooted  boy  and  the  whole  civilized  world. 
He  shoots  the  cook  with  a  blow  gun,  he  cuts  the  strings  of  the 
hammock  and  lets  his  dozing  grandmother  fall  to  the  ground, 
he  loads  his  grandfather's  pipe  with  powder,  he  instigates  a 
fight  between  the  cat  and  the  dog  during  family  prayers  and 
explodes  with  laughter  when  "pussy"  seeks  refuge  on  the  old 
man's  back,  he  hides  in  the  alley  and  turns  the  hose  on  Uncle 
Ephraim's  standing  collar  as  he  passes  on  his  way  to  church; 
he  cracks  chestnut  burrs  with  his  naked  heel ;  he  robs  birds' 
nests  and  murders  bullfrogs  and  plays  knucks  and  baseball; 
he  puts  assafoetida  in  the  soup  and  conceals  lizards  in  his 
father's  hat;  he  overwhelms  the  family  circle  with  his  mag- 
nificent literarv  attainments  when  he  reads  from  the  Bible  in 
what  he  calls  tlie  "paslams  of  David,"  "Praise  ye  the  Lord  with 
the  pizeltry  and  the  harp." 

His  father  took  him  to  town  one  day  and  said  to  him :  "!^^ow, 
John,  I  want  you  to  stay  here  on  the  corner  with  the  wagon 
and  watch  these  potatoes  while  I  go  round  the  square  and  see 
if  I  can  sell  them.  Don't  open  your  mouth,  sir,  while  I  am 
gone;  I'm  afraid  people  will  think  you're  a  fool."  While  the 
old  man  w^as  gone  the  merchant  came  out  and  said  to  John: 
"What  are  those  potatoes  worth,  my  son  ?"  John  looked  at  him 
and  grinned.  "What  are  those  potatoes  worth,  I  say?"  asked 
the  merchant.  John  still  looked  at  him  and  grinned.  The  mer- 
chant turned  his  heel  and  said,  "You're  a  fool,"  and  went  back 
into  his  store.  When  the  old  man  returned  John  shouted,  "Pap, 
they  found  it  out  and  I  never  said  a  word." 

His  life  is  an  endless  chain  of  pranks  and  pleasures.  Look 
how  the  brawling  brook  pours  do^vn  the  steep  declivities  of  the 


56  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

mountain  gorge.  Here  it  breaks  into  purls  and  silvery  foam, 
there  it  dashes  in  rapids,  among  brown  boulders,  and  yonder  it 
tumbles  from  the  gray  crest  of  a  precipice.  Thus,  forever  laugh- 
ing, singing,  rollicking,  romping,  till  it  is  checked  in  its  mad 
rush  and  spreads  into  a  still,  smooth  mirror,  reflecting  the  in- 
verted images  of  rock  and  fern  and  wild  flower  and  tree  and 
sky.  It  is  the  symbol  of  the  life  of  a  barefoot  3d  boy.  His 
quips  and  cranks,  his  whims  and  jollities  and  jocund  mischief 
are  but  the  effervescences  of  exuberant  young  life,  the  wild 
music  of  the  mountain  stream. 

If  I  were  a  sculptor  I  would  chisel  from  the  marble  my 
ideal  of  the  monumental  fool.  I  would  make  it  the  figure  of  a 
man  with  knitted  brow  and  clenched  teeth  beating  and  bruising 
his  barefooted  boy  in  the  cruel  endeavor  to  drive  him  from  the 
paradise  of  his  childish  fun  and  folly.  If  your  boy  will  be  a 
boy,  let  him  be  a  boy  still,  and  remember  that  he  is  following 
the  paths  which  your  feet  have  trodden,  and  will  soon  look  back 
upon  its  precious  memories,  as  you  now  do,  with  the  aching 
heart  of  a  careworn  man. 

"Oh,  I  love  the  dear  old   farm,  and   my  heart  grows  young  and   warm 

When  I  wander  back  to  spend  a  single  day. 
There  to  hear  the  robins  sing  in  the  trees  around  the  spring 

Where  I  used  to  watch  the  happy  children  play. 
Oh,  I  hear  their  voices  yet,  and  I  never  shall  forget 

How  their  faces  beamed  with  childish  mirth  and  glee; 
But  my  heart  grows  old  again,  and  I  leave  the  spot  in  pain, 

When  I  call  them  and  no  answer  comes  to  me." 


THE  PARADISE   OF   YOUTH. 


If  childhood  is  the  sunrise  of  life,  youth  is  the  heyday  of 
life's  ruddy  June.  It  is  the  sweet  solstice  in  life's  early  Sum- 
mer, which  puts  forth  the  fragrant  bud  and  blossom  of  sin  e'er 
its  bitter  fruits  ripen  and  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips  of  age.  It 
is  the  hajDpy  transition  period,  when  long  legs  and  loose  joints 
and  verdant  awkwardness  first  stumble  on  the  vestibule  of  man- 
hood. Did  you  never  observe  him  shaving  and  scraping  his  pim- 
pled face  till  it  resembled  a  featherless  goose,  reaping  nothing 
but  lather  and  dirt  and  a  little  intangible  fuzz?  That  is  the 
first  symptom  of  love.    Did  you  never  observe  him  wrestling  with 


THE   PARADISE   OF   FOOLS  57 

a  pair  of  boots,  two  numbers  too  small,  as  Jacob  wrestled  with 
the  angel?  That  is  another  symptom  of  love.  His  calloused 
heel  slowly  and  painfully  yields  to  the  pressure  of  his  per- 
spiring paroxysms  until  his  feet  are  folded  like  fans  and  driven 
home  in  the  pinching  leather,  and  as  he  sits  at  church  with 
them  hid  under  the  bench,  his  uneasy  squirms  are  symptoms  of 
the  tortures  of  the  infernal  regions,  and  the  worm  that  dieth 
not;  but  that  is  only  the  penalty  of  loving.  When  he  begins 
to  wander  through  the  fragrant  meadows  and  talk  to  himself 
among  the  buttercups  and  clover  blossoms  it  is  a  sure  sign  that 
the  golden  shaft  of  the  winged  god  has  sped  from  its  bended 
bow.  Love's  archer  has  shot  a  poisoned  arrow  which  wounds 
but  never  kills.  The  sweet  venom  has  done  its  work.  The  fever 
of  the  amorous  wound  drives  the  red  currents  bounding  through 
his  veins  and  his  brain  now  reels  with  the  delirium  of  the  tender 
passion.  His  soul  is  wrapped  in  visions  of  dreamy  black  eyes 
peeping  out  from  under  raven  curls  and  cheeks  like  gardens  of 
roses.  To  him  the  world  is  transformed  into  a  blooming  Eden 
and  she  is  its  only  Eve.  He  hears  her  voice  in  the  sound  of  the 
laughing  waters,  the  fluttering  of  her  heart  in  the  Summer 
Evening's  last  sigh  that  shuts  the  rose,  and  he  sits  on  the  bank 
of  the  river  all  day  long  and  writes  poetry  to  her.  Thus  he 
writes : 

"As  I  sit  by  this  river's  crystal  wave, 
Whose   flow'ry   banks   its   waters   lave, 
Methinks  I  see  in  its  glassy  mirror 
A  face  which  to  me  than  life  is  dearer — 
Oh,  'tis  the  face  of  my  Gwendolin, 
As  pure  as  an  angel  free  from   sin; 
It  looks  info  mine  with  one  sweet  eye, 
While  the  other  is  turned  to  the  starry  sky — 
Could  I  the  ocean's  bulk  contain, 
Could  I  but  drink  the  watery  main, 
I'd  scarce  be  half  as  full  of  the  sea 
As  my  heart  is  full  of  love  for  thee !" 

THE   STUTTERING   YOUTH. 

One  bright  summer  day  a  rural  youth  took  his  sweetheart 
to  a  Baptist  baptizing,  and,  in  addition  to  his  verdancy  and  his 
awkwardness,  he  stuttered  most  distressingly.  The  singing  be- 
gan on  the  bank  of  the  stream  and  he  left  his  sweetheart  in  the 
buggy  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  near  by  and  wandered  alone  in  the 

(4) 


58  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

crowd.  Standing  unconsciously  among  those  who  were  to  be 
baptized,  the  old  parson  mistook  him  for  one  of  the  converts 
and  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  marched  him  into  the  water. 
He  began  to  protest.  "Ho-ho-hold  on,  parson,  y-y-y-you're  ma- 
ma-making a  m-m-mistake !"  "Don't  be  alarmed  my  son,  come 
right  in,"  said  the  parson.  And  he  led  him  to  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  The  poor  fellow  made  one  final  desperate  effort  to 
explain.  "P-p-p-parson,  1-1-1-let  me  explain!"  but  the  parson 
coldly  said,  "Close  you  mouth  and  eyes,  my  son,"  and  he 
soused  him  under  the  water.  After  he  was  thoroughly  baptized 
the  old  parson  led  him  to  the  bank,  the  muddy  water  trickling 
down  his  face.  He  was  dyked  in  his  new  seersucker  suit,  and 
when  the  sun  struck  it  it  began  to  draw  up.  The  legs  of  his 
pants  drew  up  to  his  knees,  his  sleeves  drew  up  to  his  elbows, 
his  little  sackcoat  yanked  up  under  his  arms.  As  he  stood 
there  trembling  and  shivering,  a  good  sister  approached  him 
and,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  said,  "God  bless  you,  my  son, 
how  do  you  feel  ?"  Looking  in  his  agony  at  his  blushing  sweet- 
heart behind  her  fan  he  replied  in  his  anguish,  "I  fee-fee-fee- 
fee-feel  like  a  d-d-d-d-d-durned  f-f-fool." 


Thus  he  lives  and  loves  and  writes  poetry  by  day  and  tosses 
on  his  bed  at  night,  like  the  restless  sea,  and  dreams  and  dreams 
and  dreams  until,  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  dreams,  he  grabs  a  pillow. 

If  I  were  called  upon  to  drink  a  toast  to  life's  happiest  period 
I  would  hold  up  the  sparkling  wine  and  say,  "Here  is  to  youth, 
that  sweet  seidlitz-powder  period,  when  two  souls  with  scarcely 
a  single  thought  meet  and  blend  in  one!  When  a  voice,  half 
gosling,  half  calliope,  rasps  the  first  sickly  confession  of  puppy- 
love  into  the  ear  of  a  blue-sashed  maiden  at  the  picnic  in  the 
grove.  But  when  she  returns  his  little  greasy  photograph,  ac- 
companied by  a  little  perfumed  note,  expressing  the  hope  that 
he  will  think  of  her  only  as  a  sister,  his  paradise  is  wrecked 
and  his  puppy-love  is  swept  into  the  limbo  of  things  that  were, 
the  schoolboy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour.  But  wait  till  the 
shadows  have  a  little  longer  grown.  Wait  till  the  young  lawyer 
comes  home  from  college,  spouting  Blackstone,  and  Kent,  and 
Kam  on  facts.     Wait  till  the  young  doctor  returns  from  the 


THE    PARADISE   OF   l-OOLS  59 

university,  with  his  whiskers  and  his  diploma,  to  tread  the  paths 
of  glory  "which  lead  but  to  the  grave."  Wait  till  society  gives 
welcome  in  the  brilliant  ball  and  the  swallowtail  coat  and  patent 
leather  pumps  whirl  with  the  decollette  and  white  slippers  till 
the  stars  are  drowning  in  the  light  of  morning.  Wait  till  the 
graduate  staggers  from  the  giddy  hall  in  full  evening  dress, 
singing  as  he  staggers: 

"After  the  ball  is  over,  after  the  break  of  morn, 
After  the  dancers'  leaving,  after  the  stars  are  gone; 
Many  a  heart  is  aching;  if  we  could  read  them  all, 
Many  the  hopes  that  are  vanished,  after  the  ball." 

It  is  then  that  "somebody's  darling"  has  reached  the  full 
tide  of  his  glory  as  a  fool. 


THE   PAKADTSE    OF    HOME. 


How  rich  would  be  the  feast  of  haj^piness  in  this  beautiful 
world  of  ours  could  folly  end  with  youth.  But  youth  is  only 
the  first  act  in  the  "comedy  of  errors."  It  is  the  pearly  gate  that 
opens  to  the  real  paradise  of  fools. 

"Its  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread — 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed; 
Or    like    the    snowfall    on    the    river — 
A  moment  white,  then  melts  forever." 

Whether  it  be  the  child  at  its  mother's  knee  or  the  man  of 
maturer  years,  whether  it  be  the  banker  or  the  beggar,  the  prince 
in  his  palace  or  the  peasant  in  his  hut,  there  is  in  every  heart 
the  dream  of  a  happier  lot  in  life. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  revelry  at  the  gilded  club,  where  a 
hundred  hearts  beat  happily.  There  were  flushed  cheeks  and 
thick  tongues  and  jests  and  anecdotes  around  the  banquet 
spread.  There  were  songs  and  poems  and  speeches.  I  saw  an 
orator  rise  to  respond  to  a  toast  to  "Home,  sweet  home,"  and 
thus  he  responded: 

"Mr.  Chairman  and  Gentlemen:  John  Howard  Payne 
touched  millions  of  hearts  when  he  sang,  'Mid  pleasures  and 
palaces  though  we  may  roam,  be  it  ever — hie — so  humble,  there's 


60  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

no  place  like  home.'  But  as  for  me,  gentlemen,  give  me  the  pleas- 
ures an'  the  palaces — give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death!  ISTo 
less  beautifully  expressed  are  the  tender  sentiments  expressed 
in  the  tender  verse  of  Lord  Byron, 

'  'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watchdog's  honest  bark 

Bay  deep-mouthed  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home — 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark  our  coming, 
And  look  brighter  when  we  come ;' 

but  as  for  me,  gen'lmen,  I  would — hie — rather  hear  the  barkin' 
of  a  Gatlin'  gun  than  to  hear  the  watchdog's  honest  bark  this 
minute.  I  would  rather  look  into  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  than 
to  look  into  the  eyes  that  are  now  waiting  to  mark  my  coming 
at  this  delightful  hour  of  three  o'clock  in  the  mornin'." 

Then  he  launched  out  on  the  ocean  of  thought  like  a  mag- 
nificent ship  going  to  sea.  And  when  the  night  was  far  spent 
and  the  orgies  were  over  and  the  lights  were  blown  out  at  the 
club,  I  saw  him  enter  his  own  sweet  home  in  his  glory — entered 
it  like  a  thief,  with  his  boots  in  his  hands;  entered  it  singing 
softly  to  himself : 

"I'm  called  the  little  gutter-pup — sweet  little  gutter-pup — 

Though  I  could  never  tell  why — hie — 
Yet  still  I'm  called  gutter-pup — sweet  little  gutter-pup— 
Poor  little  gutter-pup — I.' — hie. 

unconscious  of  the  presence  of  the  white  figure  that  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  holding  up  a  lamp  like  Liberty  enlightening 
the  world,  and  as  a  tremulous  voice  called  him  to  the  judgment 
bar  the  door  closed  behind  him  on  the  Paradise  of  a  Fool,  and 
he  sneaked  up  the  steps  muttering  to  himself,  "What  shad-ders 
we  are — hie — what  shad-ders  we  pursue."  Then  I  saw  him 
again  in  the  morning  reaping  temptation's  bitter  reward  in  the 
agonies  of  his  drunk-sick,  and,  like  Mark  Twain's  boat  in  a 

storm. 

"He  heaved  and  sot,  and  sot  and  heaved, 
And  high  his  rudder  flung; 
And  every  time  he  heaved  and  sot, 
A  mighty  leak  he  sprung." 

If  I  were  a  woman  with  a  husband  like  "that"  I  would 
£.11  him  so  full  of  Keely's  cliloride  of  gold  that  he  would  jingle 


THE  PARADISE  OF  FOOLS  6l 

as  he  walks  and  tinkle  as  he  talks,  and  have  a  fit  at  every  mention 
of  the  Silver  Bill. 

The  biggest  fool  that  walks  on  God's  footstool  is  the  man 
who  destroys  the  joy  and  peace  of  his  own  sweet  home,  for  if 
Paradise  is  ever  regained  in  this  world  it  must  be  in  the  home. 
If  its  dead  flowers  ever  bloom  again,  they  must  bloom  in  the 
happy  hearts  of  home.  If  its  sunshine  ever  breaks  through  the 
clouds,  it  must  break  forth  in  the  smiling  faces  of  home.  If 
heaven  ever  descends  to  earth  and  angels  tread  its  soil,  it  must 
be  in  the  sacred  precincts  of  home.  That  which  heaven  most  ap- 
proves is  the  pure  and  virtuous  home,  for  around  it  lingers  all 
the  sweetest  memories  and  dearest  associations  of  mankind, 
upon  it  hangs  the  hopes  and  happiness  of  the  nations  of  the 
earth,  and  above  it  shines  the  ever-blessed  star  that  lights  the 
way  back  to  the  Paradise  that  was  lost. 


BACHELOK  AND  WIDOWEK. 


I  saw  a  poor  old  bachelor  live  all  the  days  of  his  life  in  sight 
of  Paradise — too  cowardly  to  put  his  arm  around  it  and  press 
it  to  his  bosom.  He  shaved  and  primped  and  resolved  to  marry 
every  day  in  the  year  for  forty  years,  but  when  the  hour  for 
love's  duel  arrived,  when  he  stood  trembling  in  the  presence  of 
rosy  cheeks  and  glancing  eyes,  and  beauty  shook  her  curls  and 
gave  the  challenge,  his  courage  always  oozed  out,  and  he  fled 
ingloriously  from  the  field  of  honor. 

Far  happier  than  the  bachelor  is  old  Uncle  Rastus  in  his 
cabin,  when  he  holds  Aunt  Dinah's  hand  in  his  and  asks. 
"Who's  sweet  ?"  and  Aunt  Dinah  drops  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  answers,  "Bofe  uv  us."  A  thousand  times  happier  is  the 
frisky  old  widower  with  his  pink  bald  head,  his  wrinkles  and 
his  rheumatism,  who 

"Wires  in,  and  wires  out, 
And  leaves  the  ladies  all  in  doubt 
As  to  what  is  his  age,  and  what  he  is  worth, 
And  whether  or  not  he  owns  the  earth." 

He  "toils  not,  neither  does  he  spin,"  yet  Solomon  in  all  Ma 
glory  was  not  more  popular  with  the  ladies.     He  is  as  light- 


62  LECTURES    OF    KOBICRT    L.    TAYLOR 

hearted  as  "Mary's  little  lamb."  He  is  acquainted  with  every 
hog  path  in  the  matrimonial  Paradise  and  knows  all  the  nearest 
cuts  to  the  "sanctum  sanctorum"  of  woman's  love.  But  his 
jealousy  is  as  cruel  as  the  grave.  Woe  unto  the  bachelor  who 
dares  to  cross  his  path. 

An  old  bachelor  in  my  native  mountains  once  arose  in 
church  to  give  his  experience  in  the  presence  of  his  old  rival  who 
was  a  vddower,  and  with  whom  he  was  at  daggers'  points  in  the 
race  to  win  the  affections  of  one  of  the  "sisters"  in  Zion.  Thus 
the  pious  old  bachelor  spoke:  "Bretheren,  this  is  a  beautiful 
world.  I  love  to  live  in  it  just  as  well  today  as  I  ever  did  in 
my  life.  And  the  saddest  thought  that  ever  crossed  this  old 
brain  of  mine  is  that  in  a  few  short  days  at  best  these  old  eyes 
will  be  glazed  in  death  and  I'll  never  get  to  see  my  loved  ones 
in  this  world  any  more,"  and  his  old  rival  shouted  from  the 
amen  corner,  "Thank  God!" 


PHANTOMS. 

In  every  brain  there  is  a  bright  phant(  !ii  realm,  where  fan- 
cied pleasures  beckon  from  distant  shores,  but  when  we  launch 
our  barks  to  reach  them  they  vanish  and  beckon  again  from  still 
more  distant  shores.  And  so,  poor  fallen  man  pursues  the 
ghosts  of  Paradise  as  the  deluded  dog  chases  the  shadows  of 
flying  birds  in  the  meadow.  The  painter  only  paints  the 
shadows  of  beauty  on  his  canvas,  the  sculptor  only  chisels  its 
lines  and  curves  from  the  marble,  and  the  sweetest  melody  is 
but  the  faint  echo  of  the  wooing  voice  of  music. 

We  stumble  over  the  golden  nuggets  of  contentment  in  pur- 
suit of  the  phantoms  of  wealth,  and  what  is  wealth  ?  It  cannot 
purchase  a  moment  of  happiness.  Marble  halls  may  open  wide 
their  doors  and  offer  her  shelter,  but  happiness  will  flee  from  a 
palace  to  dwell  in  a  cottage.  We  crush  under  our  feet  the 
roses  of  peace  and  love  in  our  eagerness  to  reach  the  illuminated 
heights  of  glory,  and  what  is  earthly  glo?y? 


TllE   PARADISE   OF    FOOLS  63 

"He  who  ascends  to  mountain  tops  shall  find  the 

Loftiest  peaks  most  wrapped  in  clouds  and  snow; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind  must  look  down 

On  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 

And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Around  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 

Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head." 

I  saw  a  comedian  convulse  thousands  with  his  delineations 
of  the  weaknesses  of  humanity  in  the  inimitable  "Rip  Van  Win- 
kle." I  saw  him  make  laughter  hold  its  sides  as  he  imper- 
sonated the  coward  in  "The  Rivals,"  and  I  said,  "I  would  rather 
have  the  power  of  Joseph  Jefferson  to  make  the  world  laugh  and 
to  drive  care  and  trouble  from  weary  brains  and  sorrow  from 
heavy  hearts  than  to  wear  the  blood-stained  laurels  of  military 
glory  or  to  be  President  of  the  United  States,  burdened  with 
bonds  and  gold,  and  overwhelmed  with  the  double  standard  and 
three  girl  babies. 


THE    FALSE    IDEAL. 

It  is  the  false  ideal  that  builds  the  "Paradise  of  Pools." 
It  is  the  eagerness  to  achieve  success  in  realms  we  cannot  reach 
which  breeds  more  than  half  the  ills  that  curse  the  world. 

If  all  the  fish  eggs  were  to  hatch  and  every  little  fish  be- 
came a  big  fish,  the  oceans  would  be  pushed  from  their  beds 
and  the  rivers  would  be  eternally  "dammed" — with  fish,  but 
the  whales  and  sharks  and  sturgeons  and  dog  fish  and  eels  and 
snakes  and  turtles  make  three  meals  every  day  in  the  year  on 
fish  and  fish  eggs.  If  all  the  legal  spawn  should  hatch  out  law- 
yers the  earth  and  the  fullness  thereof  would  be  mortgaged  for 
fees  and  mankind  would  starve  to  death  in  the  effort  to  pay  off 
"the  aforesaid  and  the  same."  If  the  entire  crop  of  medical 
eggs  should  hatch  full-fledged  doctors,  old  "skull  and  cross- 
bones"  Mould  hold  high  carnival  among  the  children  of  men, 
and  the  old  sexton  would  sing: 

"I   gather  them   in — 
I  gather  them  in." 

If  I  could  get  the  car  of  the  young  men  who  pant  after 
politics,  as  the  hart  panteth  after  the  water  brook,  I  would  ex- 


64  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

hort  them  to  seek  for  honors  in  some  other  way,  for  "Jordan  is 
a  hard  road  to  travel."  The  poet  has  beautifully  said,  "How 
like  a  mounting  devil  in  the  heart  is  the  unreined  ambition. 
Let  it  once  but  play  the  monarch  and  its  haughty  brow  glows 
with  a  beauty  that  bewilders  thought  and  unthrones  peace  for- 
ever. Putting  on  the  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns  the  heart 
to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring  left  in  the  bosom  for  the  spirit's 
lip,  we  look  upon  our  splendor  and  forget  the  thirst  of  which 
we  perish." 


THE  CIECUS  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

I  saw  a  circus  in  a  mountain  town.      The  mountaineers 
swarmed  from  far  and  near  and  lined  the  streets  on  every  hand 
with  open  mouth  and  bated  breath  as  the  grand  procession,  with 
band  and  clown  and  camels  and  elephants  and  lions  and  tigers 
and  spotted  horses  paraded  in  brilliant  array.    The  excitement 
was  boundless  when  the  crowd  rushed  into  the  tent,  and  they 
left  behind  them  a  surging  mass  of  humanity  unprovided  with 
tickets  and  destitute  of  the  silver  half  of  the  double  standard, 
and  screamed  with  laughter  at  the  clown,  and  cheered  the  girl 
in  tights,  and  applauded  the  acrobats  as  they  turned  somersaults 
Their  interest  rose  to  white  heat  as  the  audience  within  shouted 
over  the  elephant.     But  temptation  whispered  in  the  ear  of  a 
gentleman  in  tow  breeches,  and  he  stealthily  opened  his  long- 
bladed  knife  and  cut  a  hole  in  the  canvas.     A  score  of  others 
followed  suit  and  held  their  sides  and  laughed  at  the  scenes 
within.     But  as  they  laughed  a  showman  slipped  inside,  armed 
with  a  policeman's  "billy."     He  quietly  sidled  up  to  the  hole 
where  a  peeper's  nose  made  a  knot  on  the  inside.     "Whack" 
went  the  "billy" — there  was  a  loud  grunt  and  old  "tow  breeches" 
spun  'round  like  a  top  and  cut  the  "pigeon  wing,"  while  his 
nose  spouted  blood.     "Whack"  went  the  "billy"  again  and  old 
"Hickory   Shirt"   turned   a   somersault  backwards    and    rose 
"a-runnin'."     The  last  "whack"  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  on  the 
Roman  nose  of  a  half-drunk  old  settler  from  away  up  at  the 
head  of  the  creek.     He  fell  flat  on  his  1  ack,  quivered  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  sat  up  and  clapped  his  hand  to  his  bleeding  nose. 
a,iLd  ir^  his  bewilderment  exclaimed,  "Wellj  I'll  be  durned — ^hel- 


THE   PARADISE   OF   FOOLS  6$ 

lo  there,  stranger,"  he  shouted  to  a  bystander,  "whar  wuz  you 
at  when  the  lightnin'  struck  the  show?"  Then  I  saw  a  row 
of  bleeding  noses  at  the  branch  nearby,  taking  a  bath,  and  each 
nose  resembled  a  sore  hump  on  a  camel's  back. 

So  it  is  around  the  gTeat  arena  of  political  fame  and  power. 
"Whack"  goes  the  "billy"  of  popular  opinion,  and  politicians, 
like  old  "Tow  Breeches,"  spin  'round  with  the  broken  noses  of 
misguided  ambition  and  disappointed  hope.  In  the  heated  cam- 
paign many  a  would-be  Webster  lies  down  and  dreams  of  the 
triumph  that  awaits  him  on  the  morrow,  but  he  wakes  to  find  it 
only  a  dream,  and  when  the  votes  are  counted  his  bird  hath  flown 
and  he  is  in  the  condition  of  the  old  Jew.  An  Englishman,  an 
Irishman,  and  a  Jew  hung  up  their  socks  together  on  Christmas 
Eve.  The  Englishman  put  his  diamond  pin  in  the  Irishman's 
sock,  the  Irishman  put  his  watch  in  the  sock  of  the  English- 
man ;  they  slipped  an  egg  into  the  sock  of  the  Jew.  "And  did 
you  git  ennything  ?"  asked  Pat  in  the  morning.  "Oh,  yes,"  said 
the  Englishman,  "I  received  a  fine  gold  watch,  don't  you  know." 
"And  what  did  you  get,  Pat  ?"  "Begorra,  I  got  a  foine  diamond 
I^in."  "And  what  did  you  get,  Jacob?"  said  the  Englishman 
to  the  Jew.  "Veil,"  said  Jacob,  holding  up  the  egg,  "I  got  a 
shicken,  but  it  got  avay  before  I  got  up." 


THE  PHANTOM  OF  FORTUNE. 


I  would  not  clip  the  wings  of  noble,  honorable  aspiration. 
I  would  not  bar  and  bolt  the  gate  to  the  higher  planes  of  thought 
and  action  where  truth  and  virtue  bloom  and  ripen  into  glorioas 
fruit.  There  are  a  thousand  fields  of  endeavor  in  the  world, 
and  happy  is  he  who  labors  where  God  intended  him  to  labor. 

The  contented  plowman  who  whistles  as  he  rides  to  the  field 
and  sings  as  he  plows,  and  builds  his  little  Paradise  on  the  farm, 
gets  more  out  of  life  than  the  richest  Shylock  on  earth. 

The  good  old  spectacled  mother  in  Israel,  with  her  white 
locks  and  beaming  face,  as  she  works  in  her  sphere,  visiting  the 
poor,  nursing  the  sick,  and  closing  the  eyes  of  the  dead,  is  more 
beautiful  in  her  life  and  more  charming  in  her  character  than 
the  loveliest  queen  of  society  who  ever  chased  the  phantoms  of 
Pleasure  in  the  ballroQm, 


66  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

The  humblest  village  preacher  who  faithfully  serves  his  God, 
and  leads  his  pious  flock  in  the  paths  of  holiness  and  peace,  is 
more  eloquent  and  plays  a  nobler  part  than  the  most  brilliant 
infidel  who  ever  blasphemed  the  name  of  God. 

The  industrious  drummer,  who  travels  all  night  and  toils  all 
day  to  win  comfort  for  wife,  and  children,  and  mother,  and 
sister,  is  a  better  man  and  a  far  better  citizen  than  the  most  suc- 
cessful speculator  on  Wall  Street  who  plays  with  the  fortunes  of 
his  fellow  man  as  the  wolf  plays  with  the  lamb  or  as  the  cyclone 
plays  with  the  feather.  Young  ladies,  when  the  time  comes 
to  marry  say  "yes"  to  the  good-natured,  big-hearted  drummer, 
for  he  is  a  spring  in  a  desert,  a  straight  flush  in  a  weary  hand, 
a  "thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever,"  and  he  will  never  be  at 
home  to  bother  you. 


CLOCKS. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  says,  "Our  brains  are  seventy-year 

clocks.    The  angel  of  life  winds  them  up  once  for  all,  closes  the 

case,  and  gives  the  key  into  the  hand  of  the  resvirrection  angel." 

And  when  I  read  it  I  thought  what  a  stupendous  task  awaits  the 

angel  of  the  resurrection  when  all  the  countless  millions  of  old 

rickety,  rusty,  worm-eaten  clocks   are  to  be  resurrected,   and 

wiped,  and  dusted,  and  repaired  for  mansions  in  the  skies! 

There  will  be  every  kind  and  character  of  clock  and  clockwork 

resurrected  on  that  day.     There  will  be  the  Catholic  clock  with 

his  beads,  and  the  Episcopalian  clock  with  his  ritual.     There 

will  be  an  old  clock  resurrected  on  that  day  wearing  a  broadcloth 

coat  buttoned  up  to  the  throat,  and  when  he  is  wound  up  he 

will  go  off  with  a  whizz  and  a  bang.     He  will  get  up  out  of  the 

dust  shouting  "hallelujah!"  and  he  will  proclaim  "sanctifica- 

tion"   and  "falling  from  grace"   and   "baptism  by  sprinkling 

and  pouring"  as  the  only  true  doctrine  by  which  men  shall  go 

sweeping  through  the  pearly  gate  into  the  new  Jerusalem.    And 

he  will  be  recognized  as  a  Methodist  preacher,  a  little  noisy,  a 

little  clogged  with  chicken  feathers,  but  ripe  for  the  kingdom 

of  heaven. 

There  will  be  another  old  clock  resurrected  on  that  day, 
dressed  like  the  former,  but  a  little  stiffer  and  straighter  iu  the 


THE  PARADISE  OF   FOOLS  (fj 

back,  and  armed  with  a  pair  of  gold  spectacles  and  a  manu- 
script. When  he  is  wound  up  he  will  break  out  in  a  cold  sepul' 
chral  tone  with,  firstly,  "foreordination" ;  secondly,  "predes- 
tination," and,  thirdly,  "the  final  perseverance  of  the  saints." 
And  he  will  be  recognized  as  a  Presbyterian  preacher,  a  little 
blue  and  frigid,  a  little  dry  and  formal,  but  one  of  God's  own 
elect,  and  he  will  be  labeled  for  Paradise. 

There  will  be  an  old  Plardshcll  clock  resurrected  with  throat 
whiskers  and  wearing  a  shad-bellied  coat  and  flap  breeches.  And 
when  he  is  wound  up  a  little  and  a  little  oil  is  squirted  into  his 
old  wheels,  he  will  swing  out  into  space  on  the  wings  of  the 
gospel  with,  "My  Dear  Beloved  Bretheran-ah :  I  was  a-ridin' 
along  this  mornin'  a-tryin'  to  study  up  somethin'  to  preach 
to  this  dying  congregation-ah ;  and  as  I  rid  up  by  the  old  mill 
pond-ah,  lo  and  behold !  there  was  an  old  snag  a-stickin'  up  out 
of  the  middle  of  the  pond-ah,  and  an  old  mud  turtle  had  dim 
up  out  uv  the  water  and  was  a-settin'  up  on  the  old  snag  a-sunnin' 
uv  himself-ah;  and  lo!  and  behold-ah,  when  I  rid  up  a  leetle 
nearer  to  him-ah,  he  jumped  off  the  snag  'ker  chug'  into  the 
water,  and  thereby  pro^'ing  the  doctrine  of  immersion-ah." 

Our  brains  are  clocks  and  our  hearts  are  the  pendulums. 
If  we  live  right  in  this  world  when  the  resurrection  day  shall 
come  the  Lord  God  will  polish  the  wheels  and  jewel  the  bear- 
ings and  crown  the  casements  with  stars  and  with  gold.  And 
the  pendulums  shall  be  harps  encrusted  with  precious  stones. 
They  shall  swing  to  and  fro  on  angel  wings,  making  music  in 
the  ear  of  God  and  flashing  His  glory  through  all  the  blissful 
cycles  of  eternity ! 


THE    PANIC. 

Happy  is  the  man  who  lives  within  his  means  and  who  is 
contented  with  the  legitimate  rewards  of  endeavor.  The  dread- 
ful panic  that  checks  the  progress  of  civilization  and  paralyzes 
the  commerce  of  the  world  is  the  death  angel  that  follows  specu- 
lation. Everything  is  staked  and  hazarded  on  contingencies 
that  are  as  baseless  as  the  fabric  of  a  dream.  The  day  of  set- 
tlement comes  and  nobody  is  able  to  settle.  The  borrower  is 
powerless  to  meet  his  note  in  the  bank,  the  banker  is  powerless 


68  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

to  pay  his  depositors,  and  confidence  is  stampeded  like  a  herd 
of  cattle.  The  timid  and  suspicious  old  farmer  catches  the 
wild  note  of  alarm,  and  deserting  his  plow  and  sleepy  steers 
in  the  field,  he  mounts  his  mule  and  urging  him  on  with  pound- 
ing heels,  rushes  pellmell  to  the  bank  and,  with  bulging  eyes, 
demands  his  money.  The  excitement  spreads  like  fire.  The 
blacksmith  leaves  his  anvil,  the  carpenter  his  bench  and  the 
tailor  his  goose.  The  tanner  deserts  his  hide  and  the  shoemaker 
throws  down  his  last  to  save  his  all.  The  mason,  with  his 
trowel  in  his  hand,  rushes  from  the  half-finished  wall.  Pat 
drops  his  hod  between  heaven  and  earth  and  slides  down  the 
ladder  muttering,  "Oi'll  have  me  money  or  oi'U  have  blood." 
The  fat,  phlegmatic  Dutchman,  dozing  behind  his  bar,  wakes  to 
the  situation  and  waddles  down  the  street,  pufiing  and  blowing 
like  an  engine,  and  muttering,  "Mein  Gott  in  Himmel,  mein 
debosit  ish  boosdet !"  And  thus  they  make  the  run  on  the  bank, 
gathering  about  it  like  the  hosts  of  Armageddon.  The  bottom 
drops  out  and  millionaires  go  under  like  the  passengers  of  a 
wrecked  steamer.       

''bunk  city.'''' 

Did  you  never  pass  the  remains  of  a  "boom"  town  in  your 
travels  ?  Did  you  never  gaze  upon  the  remains  of  "Bunk  City," 
where  but  yesterday  all  was  life  and  bustle,  and  today  it  looks 
like  the  ruins  of  Babylon?  The  empty  streets  for  miles  and 
miles  around  are  laid  off  and  dug  up  in  streets,  and  look  like 
they  had  been  struck  with  ten  thousand  streaks  of  chain  light- 
ning. Standing  here  and  there  are  huge  frames,  holding  up 
mammoth  signboards,  bearing  the  names  of  land  companies, 
but  the  land  companies  are  gone.  Plalf -driven  nails  are  left  to 
rust  in  a  few  old  skeleton  buildings  and  the  brick  lies  unmor- 
tared  in  half-finished  walls,  and  tenantless  houses  stand  here 
and  there  like  the  ghosts  of  buried  hope.  Down  by  the  river 
stands  the  furnace,  grim  and  silent  as  the  extinct  crater  of  Popo- 
catepetl, and  the  great  hotel  on  the  hill  looks  like  the  Tower  of 
Babel  two  thousand  years  after  the  confusion  of  tongues.  The 
last  of  the  speculators,  with  his  blue  nose  and  his  old  battered 
plug  hat,  which  resembles  an  accordion  that  has  been  yanked 
by  a  cyclone,  stands  on  the  corner  and  contemplates  his  old  sedge 


THE   PARADISE   OF   FOOLS  69 

fields  which  have  shrunk  in  value  from  one  hundred  dollars  a 
front  foot  to  one  dollar  for  a  hundred  "front  acres/'  and  bale- 
fully  sings  a  new  song : 

"After  the  boom  is  over,  after  the  panic's  on, 
After  the  fools  are  leavin, 
After  the  money's  gone. 

Many  a  bank  is  'busted,'  if  we  could  see  in  the  room — 
Many  a  pocket  is  empty — after  the  boom." 


""your  uncle/' 


An  impecunious  speculator  once  flooded  a  town  with  hand 
bills  and  posters  containing  this  announcement,  "Your  Uncle 
is  Coming."  The  streams  of  passers-bj  looked  at  the  billboards 
and  wondered  what  it  meant.  The  speculators  rented  the  thea- 
ter and  one  day  a  new  flood  of  hand  bills  and  posters  made  this 
announcement,  "Your  Uncle  is  Here."  He  gave  orders  to  his 
stage  manager  to  raise  the  curtain  exactly  at  eight  o'clock.  The 
speculator  himself  stood  in  the  door  and  received  the  admission 
fees  and  then  disappeared.  In  their  curiosity  to  see  the  per- 
formance of  "Your  Uncle,"  the  villagers  filled  every  seat  in  the 
theater  long  before  the  hour  for  the  performance  arrived.  The 
curtain  rose  at  the  appointed  hour  and  lo!  on  a  board  in  the 
center  of  the  stage,  was  a  card  bearing  this  announcement  in 
large  letters,  "YOUR  UNCLE  IS  GONE." 

What  a  splendid  illustration  of  modern  speculation  and  its 
willing  victims  who  are  so  easily  led  into  the  "Paradise  of 
Fools."  


PESSIMISM    AND    OPTIMISM. 


But  why  mourn  and  brood  over  broken  fortunes  and  the 
calamities  of  life?  Why  tarry  in  the  doldrums  of  pessimism, 
with  never  a  breeze  to  catch  your  limp  and  drooping  sails  and 
waft  you  on  a  joyous  wave  ?  Pessimism  is  the  nightmare  of  the 
world.  It  is  the  prophet  of  famine,  pestilence  and  human  woe. 
It  is  the  apostle  of  the  devil,  and  its  mission  is  to  impede  the 
progress  of  civilization.  It  denounces  every  institution  estab- 
lished for  human  development  as  a  fraud.  It  stigmatizes  law 
as  the  machinery  of  injustice.  It  sneers  at  society  as  hollow- 
hearted  corruption  and  insincerity.  It  brands  politics  as  a 
reeking  mass  of  rottenness  and  scoflFs  at  morality  as  the  tinsel 


70  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

of  sin.  Its  disciples  are  those  who  rail  and  snarl  at  everything 
that  is  noble  and  good,  to  whom  a  joke  is  an  assault  and  battery, 
a  laugh  is  an  insult  to  outraged  dignity,  and  the  provocation  of  a 
smile  is  like  passing  an  electric  current  through  the  facial 
muscles  of  a  corpse. 

God  deliver  us  from  the  fools  who  seek  to  build  their  para- 
dise on  the  ashes  of  those  they  have  destroyed.  God  deliver  us 
from  the  fools  whose  lifework  is  to  cast  aspersions  upon  the 
motives  and  characters  of  the  leaders  of  men.  I  believe  the 
men  who  reach  high  places  in  politics  are,  as  a  rule,  the  best 
and  brainiest  men  in  the  land,  and  upon  their  shoulders  rest  the 
safety  and  well-being  of  the  peace-loving.  God-fearing  millions. 
I  believe  the  world  is  better  today  than  it  ever  was  before. 

I  believe  in  the  refinements  of  modern  society,  its  elegant 
accomplishments.  Its  intellectual  culture  and  its  conceptions  of 
the  beautiful  are  glorious  evidences  of  our  advancement  toward 
a  higher  plane  of  being.  I  think  the  superb  churches  of  today, 
with  the  glorious  harmonies  of  their  choral  music,  their  great 
pipe  organs,  their  violins  and  cornets,  and  their  gTand  sermons, 
full  of  heaven's  balm  for  aching  hearts,  are  expressions  of  the 
highest  civilization  that  has  ever  dawned  upon  the  earth.  I  be- 
lieve each  successive  civilization  is  better  and  higher  and  grander 
than  that  which  preceded  it,  and  upon  the  shining  rungs  of  this 
ladder  of  evolution  our  race  will  finally  climb  back  to  the  Para- 
dise that  was  lost.  I  believe  that  the  society  of  today  is  better 
than  it  ever  was  before.  I  believe  that  human  government  is 
better  and  nobler  and  purer  than  it  ever  was  before.  I  believe 
the  church  is  better  and  stronger  and  is  making  grander  strides 
toward  the  conversion  of  the  world  and  the  final  establishment 
of  the  kingdom  of  God  on  earth  than  it  has  ever  made  before.  I 
believe  that  the  biggest  fools  in  this  world  are  the  advocates  and 
disseminators  of  infidelity,  the  would-be  destroyers  of  the  Para- 
dise of  God.  

BEAUTIFUL    PICTURES    BLOTTED. 

I  sat  in  a  great  theater  at  the  ISTational  Capital.  It  was 
thronged  with  youth  and  beauty,  old  age  and  wisdom.  I  saw  a 
man,  the  image  of  his  God,  stand  upon  the  stage  and  I  heard 
him  speak.    His  gestures  were  the  perfection  of  grace,  his  voice 


THE  PARADISE   Of   FOOLS  71 

was  music  and  his  language  was  more  beautiful  than  I  had 
ever  heard  from  mortal  lips.  He  painted  picture  after  picture 
of  the  pleasures,  and  joys,  and  sympathies  of  home.  He  en- 
throned love  and  preached  the  gospel  of  humanity  like  an  angel. 
Then  I  saw  him  dip  his  brush  in  ink  and  blot  out  the  beautiful 
pictures  he  had  painted.  I  saw  him  stab  love  dead  at  his  feet. 
I  saw  him  blot  out  the  stars  and  the  sun  and  leave  humanity 
and  the  universe  in  eternal  darkness  and  eternal  death.  I  saw 
him,  like  the  serpent  of  old,  worm  himself  into  the  paradise  of 
human  hearts  and,  by  his  seductive  eloquence  and  the  subtle 
devices  of  his  sophistry,  inject  his  fatal  venom,  under  whose 
blight  its  flowers  faded,  its  music  was  hushed,  its  sunshine  was 
darkened,  and  the  soul  was  left  a  desert  waste,  with  only  the  new- 
made  graves  of  faith  and  hope.  I  saw  him,  like  a  lawless, 
erratic  meteor,  without  an  orbit,  sweep  across  the  intellectual 
sky,  brilliant  only  in  his  self-consuming  fire,  generated  by  fric- 
tion with  the  indestructible  and  eternal  truths  of  God.  That 
man  was  the  archangel  of  modern  infidelity,  and  I  said,  "How 
true  is  holy  writ  which  declares,  "The  fool  hath  said  in  his 
heart,  there  is  no  God." 

Tell  me  not,  O  infidel,  there  is  no  God,  no  heaven,  no  hell. 

"A  solemn  murmur  in  the  soul  tells  of  a  world  to  be, 
As  travelers  hear  the  billows  roll  before  they  reach  the  sea." 

Tell  me  not,  O  infidel,  there  is  no  risen  Christ; 

When  every  earthly  hope  hath  fled, 
When  angry  seas  their  billows  fling, 

How  sweet  to  lean  on  what  He  said, 
How  firmly  to  His  cross  we  cling. 

What  intelligence  less  than  God  could  fashion  the  human 
body?  What  motive  power  is  it,  if  it  is  not  God,  that  drives 
that  throbbing  engine,  the  human  heart,  with  ceaseless,  tireless 
stroke,  sending  the  crimson  streams  of  life  bounding  and  cir- 
cling through  every  vein  and  artery  ?  Whence,  and  what,  if  not 
of  God,  is  this  mystery  we  call  mind  ?  What  is  this  mystery  we 
call  the  soul  ?  What  is  it  that  thinks,  and  feels,  and  knows,  and 
acts?  O,  who  can  comprehend,  who  can  deny  the  divinity  that 
stirs  within  us!  God  is  everywhere  and  in  everything.  His 
mystery  is  in  every  bud  and  blossom,  and  leaf  and  tree,  in  every 


72  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

rock  and  hill  and  vale  and  mountain,  in  every  spring  and  rivu- 
let and  river.  The  rustle  of  his  wing  is  in  every  zephyr,  its 
might  is  in  every  tempest.  He  dwells  in  the  dark  pavilions  of 
every  storm  cloud.  The  lightning  is  his  messenger  and  the 
thunder  is  his  voice.  His  awful  tread  is  in  every  earthquake 
and  on  every  angry  ocean;  and  the  heavens  above  us  teem  with 
his  myriads  of  shining  witnesses ;  the  universe  of  solar  systems, 
whose  wheeling  orbs  course  the  crystal  paths  of  space,  proclaim 
through  the  dread  halls  of  eternity  the  glory,  and  power,  and 
dominion  of  the  All-Wise,  Omnipotent  and  Eternal  God. 


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VISIONS  AND  DREAMS 


(5) 


VISIONS  AND  DREAMS 

MULTITUDINOUS  DREAMS. 

The  infinite  wisdom  of  Almighty  God  has  made  a  plane  of 
intelligence  and  a  horizon  of  happiness  for  every  being  in  the 
universe,  from  the  butterfly  to  the  archangel.  Every  plane  has 
its  own  horizon,  narrowest  and  darkest  on  the  lowest  level  but 
broad  as  the  universe  on  the  highest.  Man  stands  on  that  won- 
drous plane  where  mortality  and  immortality  meet.  Below  him 
is  animal  life,  lighted  only  by  the  dim  lamp  of  instinct ;  above 
him  is  spiritual  life,  illuminated  by  the  light  of  reason  and  the 
glory  of  God.  Below  him  is  this  old  material  world  of  rock  and 
hill  and  vale  and  mountain,  above  him  is  the  mysterious  world 
of  the  imagination,  whose  rivers  are  dreams,  whose  continents 
are  visions  of  beauty  and  upon  whose  shadowy  shores  the  surfs 
of  phantom  seas  forever  break. 

We  hear  the  song  of  the  cricket  on  the  hearth  and  the  joyful 
hum  of  the  bees  among  the  poppies;  we  hear  the  light-winged 
lark  gladden  the  morning  with  her  song  and  the  silver-throated 
thrush  warble  in  the  tree  top.  What  are  these  and  all  the  sweet 
melodies  we  hear  but  echoes  from  the  realm  of  visions  and 
dreams  ? 

The  humming  bird,  that  swift  fairy  of  the  rainbow, fluttering 
down  from  the  land  of  the  sun  when  June  scatters  her  roses 
northward,  and  poising  on  wings  that  never  weary,  kisses  the 
nectar  from  the  waiting  flowers ;  how  bright  and  beautiful  is  the 
horizon  of  his  little  life.  How  sweet  is  the  dream  of  the  covert 
in  the  deep  mountain  gorge  to  the  trembling,  panting  deer  in  his 
flight  before  the  himter's  horn  and  the  yelping  hounds.  How 
dear  to  the  heart  of  the  weary  ox  is  the  vision  of  green  fields  and 
splashing  waters.  And  when  the  cows  come  home  at  sunset, 
fragrant  with  the  breath  of  clover  blossoms,  how  rich  is  the 
feast  of  happiness  when  the  frolicsome  calf  bounds  forward  to 
the  flowing  udder,  and  with  his  walling  eyes  reflecting  Avhole 
acres  of  calf  heaven  and  his  little  tail  wiggling  in  speechless 
bliss,  he  draws  his  evening  meal  from  nature's  commissariat. 


76  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

The  snail  lolls  in  his  shell  and  thinks  himself  a  king  in  the 
grandest  palace  in  the  world.  And  how  brilliant  is  the  horizon 
of  the  firefly  when  he  winks  his  other  eye ! 

The  red  worm  delves  in  the  sod  and  dines  on  clay.  He  makes 
no  after-dinner  speeches,  he  never  responds  to  a  toast,  but 
silently  revels  on  in  his  dark  banquet  halls  under  the  dank  vio- 
lets or  in  the  rich  mould  by  the  river.  But  the  red  worm  never 
reaches  the  goal  of  his  "visions  and  dreams"  until  he  is  trium- 
phantly impaled  on  the  fishhook  of  the  barefooted  boy,  who  sees 
other  visions  and  dreams  other  dreams  of  fluttering  suckers  in 
shining  streams.  And  O,  there  is  no  thrill  half  so  rapturous 
to  the  barefooted  boy  as  the  thrill  of  a  nibble ! 

Two  darkeys  sat  on  a  rock  on  the  bank  of  the  river  fishing. 
One  was  an  old  darkey,  the  other  was  a  boy.  The  boy  got  a 
nibble,  his  foot  slipped  and  he  fell  headlong  into  the  surging 
waters  and  began  to  float  out  to  the  middle  of  the  stream,  sink- 
ing and  rising  and  strangling  and  crying  for  help.  The  old 
man  hesitated  on  the  rock  for  a  moment,  then  he  plunged  in 
after  the  drowning  boy,  and  after  a  desperate  struggle  landed 
his  companion  safely  on  shore.  A  passer-by  ran  up  to  the  old 
darkey  and  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  "Old  man,  that 
was  a  noble  deed  in  you  to  risk  your  life  that  way  to  save  that 
good-for-nothing  boy."  "Yes,  boss,"  mumbled  the  old  man,  "I 
was  obliged  to  save  dat  nigger,  he  had  all  de  bate  in  his  pocket." 


THE  HAPPY  LONG  AGO. 


jSTot  long  ago  I  wandered  back  to  the  scenes  of  my  boyhood, 
on  my  father's  plantation  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  in  the  beau- 
tiful land  of  my  native  mountains.  I  rambled  again  in  the 
pathless  woods  with  my  rifle  on  my  shoulder.  I  sat  on  the  old 
familiar  logs  amid  the  falling  leaves  of  Autumn  and  heard  the 
squirrels  bark  and  shake  the  branches  as  they  jumped  from  tree 
to  tree.  I  heard  the  katydid  sing  and  the  whippoorwill,  and  the 
deep  basso-profundo  of  the  bullfrog  on  the  bank  of  the  pond. 
I  heard  the  drumming  of  a  pheasant  and  the  hoot  of  a  wise 
old  owl  away  over  in  "Sleepy  Hollow."  I  heard  the  tinkling  of 
bells  on  the  distant  hills,  sweetly  mingling  with  the  happy 
chorus  of  the  song  birds  in  their  evening  serenade.    Every  living 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  ']^ 

creature  seemed  to  be  chanting  a  hymn  of  praise  to  its  God, 
and  as  I  sat  there  and  listened  to  the  weird,  wild  harmonies,  a 
vision  of  the  past  opened  before  me.  I  thought  I  was  a  boy 
again  and  played  around  the  cabins  of  the  old-time  darkies  and 
heard  them  laugh  and  sing  and  tell  their  stories  as  they  used  to 
long  ago.  My  hair  stood  on  ends  again  (I  was  afflicted  with 
hair  when  I  was  a  boy),  and  the  chills  played  up  and  do%vn  my 
back  when  I  remembered  old  Uncle  Rufus'  story  of  the  panthers. 
He  said:  "Many  years  ago  Mos  Jeems  wuz  a-gwyne  along  de 
path  by  de  graveyard,  late  in  de  evenin',  an'  bless  de  Lo'd,  all  of 
a  sudden  he  looked  up  an'  dar  was  a  painter  crouchin'  down 
befoah  'im,  pattin'  de  groun'  wdd  'is  tail  an'  ready  to  spring. 
Mos  Jeems  wheeled  to  run,  an'  bless  de  Lor'd  dar  was  anudder 
painter,  crouchin'  an'  pattin'  de  groun'  wid  his  tail  in  de  path 
behin'  him  an'  ready  to  spring.  An'  bofe  ov  dem  painters  sprung 
at  de  same  time  right  toards  Mos  Jeemses  head;  Mos  Jeems 
jumped  to  one  side  an'  dem  painters  come  togedder  in  de  air. 
An'  dey  wuz  a-gwyne  so  fast  an'  dey  struck  each  udder  with  sieh 
turble  ambition  dat  instid  ov  comin'  dowTi,  dey  went  up.  An' 
bless  de  Lo'd  Mos  Jeems  stood  dar  an'  watched  dem  painters 
go  on  up  an'  up  an'  up  till  dey  went  clean  out  o'  sight,  a-fightin'. 
An'  bless  de  Lo'd  de  hair  wuz  a-fallin'  for  three  days,  which 
fulfills  de  words  ob  de  scripchah,  whar  it  reads,  'De  young  men 
shall  dream  dreams  an'  de  ole  men  shall  see  visions.'  " 

I  remembered  the  tale  Uncle  Solomon  used  to  tell  about  the 
first  convention  that  was  ever  held  in  the  world.  He  said :  "It 
wuz  a  convenchun  ov  de  animils.  Brudder  fox  wuz  dar,  an' 
brudder  wolf,  an'  brudder  rabbit,  an'  all  de  rest  ov  de  animil 
kingdom  wuz  geddered  togedder  fur  to  settle  some  questions 
concarnin'  de  happiness  ov  de  animil  kingdom.  De  first  ques- 
tion dad  riz  befoah  de  convenchun  wuz  how  dey  should  vote. 
Brudder  coon  he  took  de  floah  an'  moved  dat  de  convenchun  vote 
by  raisin'  der  tails,  whereupon  brudder  'possum  riz  wid  a  grin 
ov  disgust  an'  said,  'Mr.  Chaiahman,  I's  unanimous  opposed  tQ 
dat  moshun !  Brudder  Coon  wants  Vlis  convenchun  to  vote  by 
raisin'  der  tails,  kaze  Brudder  Coon's  got  a  ring-striped  an' 
streaked  tail  an'  wants  to  show  it  befo'  de  convenchun.  Brud- 
der Coon  knows  dat  de  'possum  is  afflicted  wid  an  ole  black, 
rusty  tail,  an'  I  consider  dat  moshun  an  insult  to  de  'possum 


78  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

.    ...  .  , 

•    ■■■:'§ 

race,  an'  besides  dat,  Mr.  Chaialiman,  of  you  passes  dis  raoshiin 
fur  to  vote  by  raisin'  yo'  tails,  de  billygoat's  already  voted." 

I  sometimes  think  that  Uncle  Solomon's  homely  story  of  the 
goat  would  be  a  splendid  illustration  of  some  of  our  modern 
politicians.  It  is  difficult  to  tell  which  side  of  the  question  they 
are  on. 

I  remember  the  yarn  Uncle  Yaddie  once  spun  at  the  ex- 
pense of  Uncle  Rastus.  Rastus  looked  sour,  and  said,  "You 
bettah  not  go  too  fur,  I'll  tell  about  dem  watermillions  what  dis- 
appeared frum  Mos  Landon's  watermillion  patch."  But  Uncle 
Yaddie  was  undismayed  by  the  threatened  attack  upon  his  own 
record,  and  he  said:  "Some  time  ago  Rastus  concluded  to  go 
into  de  egg  bizness  an'  he  prayed  to  de  Lo'd  to  send  'im  some 
hens,  but  somehow^  or  nudder  de  hens  nebber  come,  an'  den  he 
prayed  to  de  Lo'd  to  send  him  after  de  hens,  an'  lo  an'  behold, 
nex'  mo'nin'  his  lot  wuz  full  o'  chickens."  He  said:  "Rastus 
fixed  de  nestiz  an'  waited  an'  waited  fo'  de  hens  to  lay,  but 
somehow  er  nudder  de  hens  wouldn't  lay  dat  summer  at  all, 
an'  Rastus  kep'  gittin'  madder  an'  madder  till  one  day  de  ole 
rooster  hopped  up  on  de  porch  an'  begun  to  flop  his  wings  an' 
crow.  Rastus  looked  at  him  sideways  an'  muttered,  'Yes,  flop- 
pin'  yo'  wings  an'  crowin'  aroun'  heah  like  an  ole  fool  an'  you 
can't  lay  a  egg  to  save  yo'  life.'  " 

The  darkies  fell  over  on  the  floor  and  everybody  laughed 
except  Rastus,  but  to  appease  his  wrath  Uncle  Yaddie  rolled 
out  a  big  "watermillion"  from  under  the  bed,  which  lighted 
up  the  face  of  the  fro\vning  old  darkey  with  smiles,  and  as  the 
luscious  red  pulp  melted  away  in  his  mouth  he  cut  the  "pigeon 
wing"  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  sang  like  a  mocking  bird : 

"Oh.  de  honeymoon  am  sweet, 
De  chicken  am  ^ood, 

De  'possum  it  am  very,  very  fine; 
Btit  .eive  me,  oh.  give  me — 
Oh.  how  T  wish  you  would — 

Dat   watermilh'on   hangin*    on    de   vine!" 

Then  old  Uncle  N'ewt  resined  his  bow  and  the  welkin  rang 
with  the  music  of  the  fiddle.  There  I  sat  in  the  old  familiar 
woods  and  dreamed  of  the  happy  long  ago,  until  a  gang  of 
blackbirds  spluttering  in  a  neighboring  tree  top  woke  me.     And 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  79 

wliea  I  rose  from  the  log  and  threw  myself  into  the  shape  of 
an  interrogation  point,  and  touched  the  trigger,  at  the  crack  of 
my  rifle  old  bullfrog  shot  into  the  pond,  the  hoot  owl  scooted  into 
his  castle  in  the  trunk  of  an  old  hollow  tree,  the  blackbirds  cut 
the  asymptote  of  a  hyperbolical  curve  in  the  air,  the  squirrel  fell 
to  the  ground  at  my  feet  with  a  bullet  through  his  brain  and 
there  was  silence.  Silence  in  the  frog  })ond,  silence  in  the  trees, 
silence  in  "Sleepj^  Hollow,"  silence  all  around  me.  I  shouldered 
my  rifle  and  wended  my  way  back  to  the  old  homestead  on  the 
bank  of  the  river  and  silence  was  there.  The  voices  of  the 
happy  long  ago  were  hushed.  The  old-time  darkies  were  sleep- 
ing on  the  hill  close  by  the  spot  where  my  father  sleeps.  The 
moss-covered  bucket  was  gone  from  the  well.  The  old  barn  sheds 
had  creeled,  the  old  house  where  I  was  born  was  silent  and 
deserted. 

As  I  looked  upon  these  scenes  of  my  earliest  recollection  I 
was  softened  and  subdued  into  a  sweet,  pensive  sorrow,  which 
only  the  happiest  and  holiest  associations  of  bygone  years  can 
call  into  being. 

There  are  times  in  our  lives  when  grief  lies  heaviest  on  the 
soul,  when  memory  weeps,  when  gathering  clouds  of  mournful 
melancholy  pour  out  their  floods  and  drown  the  heart  in  tears. 

O,  beautiful  isle  of  memory,  lighted  by  the  morning  star 
of  life,  where  the  roses  bloom  by  the  door,  where  the  robins 
sing  among  the  apple  blossoms,  where  bright  waters  ripple  in 
eternal  melody!  There  are  echoes  of  songs  that  are  sung  no 
more,  tender  words  spoken  by  lips  that  are  dust,  blessings  from 
hearts  that  are  still !  There's  a  useless  cradle  and  a  broken  doll, 
a  sunny  tress  and  an  empty  garment  folded  away!  There's  a 
lock  of  silvered  hair  and  an  unforgotten  prayer,  and  mother 
is  sleeping  there!       

ambition's  dream. 

Under  the  shades  of  the  sycamores  on  my  father's  old  farm 
I  used  to  dream  of  the  years  to  come.  I  looked  through  a  vista 
blooming  with  pleasures,  fruiting  with  achievements  and  beau- 
tiful as  the  cloud-isles  of  the  sunset.  The  siren  Ambition  sat 
beside  me  and  fired  my  young  heart  with  her  prophetic  song. 
She  dazzled  me  and  charmed  me  and  soothed  me  into  sweet, 


8o  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

fantastic  reveries.  She  touclied  me  and  bade  me  look  into  the 
wondrous  future.  The  bow  of  promise  spanned  it.  Hope  was 
enthroned  there  and  smiled  like  an  angel  of  light.  Under  that 
shining  arch  lay  the  goal  of  mj  fondest  aspirations.  Visions  of 
wealth  and  laurels  and  applauding  thousands  crowded  the  hori- 
zon of  my  dream.  I  saw  the  capitol  of  the  Republic,  that  white- 
columned  Pantheon  of  Liberty,  lifting  its  magnificent  pile  from 
the  midst  of  the  palaces  and  parks,  the  statues  and  monuments 
of  the  most  beautiful  city  in  the  world.  Infatuated  with  this 
vision  of  earthly  glory  I  bade  adieu  to  home  and  its  dreams, 
seized  the  standard  of  a  great  political  party  and  rushed  into 
the  turmoil  and  tumult  of  the  heated  campaign.  Unable  to 
bear  the  armor  of  a  Saul,  I  went  forth  to  do  battle  armed  with 
a  fiddle,  a  pair  of  saddlebags,  a  plug  horse  and  the  eternal  truth. 
There  was  the  din  of  conflict  by  day  on  the  hustings,  there  was 
the  sound  of  revelry  by  night  in  the  cabins.  The  midnight  stars 
twinkled  to  the  music  of  the  merry  fiddle  and  the  hills  re- 
sounded with  the  clatter  of  dwindling  shoe  soles  as  the  mountain 
lads  and  lassies  danced  the  hours  away  in  the  good  old-time 
Virginia  reel.  I  rode  among  the  mountain  fastnesses  like  the 
knight  of  the  woeful  figure,  mounted  on  my  prancing  "Rozi- 
nante,"  everywhere  charging  the  windmill  of  the  opposing 
party,  and  wherever  I  drew  rein  the  mountaineers  swarmed  from 
far  and  near  to  witness  the  bloodless  battle  of  the  contending 
candidates  in  the  arena  of  joint  discussion.  My  learned  com- 
petitor, bearing  the  shield  of  "protection  to  American  labor," 
and  armed  to  the  teeth  with  mighty  argument,  hurled  himself 
upon  me  with  the  fury  of  a  lion.  His  blows  descended  like 
thunderbolts,  and  the  welkin  rang  with  cheers  when  his  lance 
went  shivering  to  the  center.  His  logic  was  appalling,  hi? 
imagery  was  sublime.  His  tropes  and  similes  flashed  like  the 
draT^Ti  blades  of  charging  cavalry,  and  with  a  flourish  of  trum- 
pets his  grand  eifort  culminated  in  a  splendid  tribute  to  the 
Republic,  crowned  with  Goldsmith's  beautiful  metaphor: 

"As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form 
Swells  from  the  vale  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  'round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head." 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  8l 

I  received  the  charge  of  the  enemy  with  poised  lance  and 
visor  down.  I  deluged  the  tall  cliff  under  a  flood  of  "mountain 
eloquence,"  which  poured  from  my  patriotic  lips  like  molasses 
pouring  from  the  bunghole  of  the  universe.  I  mounted  the 
American  eagle  and  soared  among  the  stars.  I  scraped  the  skies 
and  cut  the  black  illimitable  far  out  beyond  the  orbit  of  Uranus, 
and  I  reached  the  climax  of  my  triumphant  flight  with  a  hyper- 
bole that  eclipsed  Goldsmith's  metaphor,  unhorsed  the  foe  and 
left  him  stunned  upon  the  field.     Thus  I  soared : 

"I  stood  upon  the  seashore  and  with  a  frail  reed  in  my  hand 
I  wrote  in  the  sand,  ^My  country,  I  love  thee!'  A  mad  wave 
came  rushing  by  and  wiped  out  the  fair  impression.  Cruel  wave, 
treacherous  sand,  frail  reed,  I  said,  I  hate  ye !  I'll  trust  ye  no 
more,  but  with  a  giant's  arm  I'll  reach  to  the  coast  of  Norway 
and  pluck  its  tallest  pine  and  dip  it  in  the  crater  of  Vesuvius  and 
write  upon  the  burnished  heavens,  'My  country,  I  love  thee!' 
and  I'd  like  to  see  any  'durned'  wave  rub  that  out!" 

Between  the  long  intervals  of  argument  my  speech  grinned 
with  anecdotes  like  a  basket  full  of  'possum  heads.  The  fiddle 
played  its  part.  The  people  did  the  rest,  and  I  carved  upon 
the  tombstone  of  the  demolished  knight  these  tender  words: 

"Tread  softly  'round  this  sacred  heap — 
It  guards  ambition's  restless  sleep, 
Whose  greed  for  place  ne'er  did   forsake  him — 
Don't  mention  office,  or  you'll  wake  him." 

I  reached  the  goal  of  my  visions  and  dreams  under  that 
colossal  dome  whose  splendors  are  shadowed  in  the  broad  river 
that  flows  by  the  shrine  of  Mt.  Vernon.  I  sat  amid  the  con- 
fusion and  uproar  of  the  parliamentary  struggles  of  the  lower 
branch  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States.  "Sunset"  Cox, 
with  his  beams  of  wit  and  humor,  convulsed  the  HoTise  and 
shook  the  galleries.  Alexander  Stephens,  one  of  the  last  tot- 
tering monuments  of  the  glory  of  the  old  South,  still  lingered 
on  the  floor,  where,  in  bygone  years,  the  battles  of  his  vigorous 
manhood  were  fought.  I  saw  in  the  Senate  an  assemblage  of 
the  gi'andest  men  since  the  days  of  Webster  and  Clay.  Conkling, 
the  intellectual  Titan,  the  Apollo  of  manly  form  and  grace, 
thundered  there.     The  "Plumed  Knight,"  that  gi'and  incarna- 


82  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

tion  of  mind  and  magnetism,  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  glory. 
Edmunds  and  Zack  Chandler  and  the  brilliant  and  learned 
jurist,  Mat  Carpenter,  were  there.  Thurman,  "the  noblest 
old  Koman  of  them  all,"  was  there  with  his  famous  bandanna 
handkerchief.  The  immortal  Ben  Hill,  the  idol  of  the  South, 
and  Lamar,  the  gifted  orator  and  highest  type  of  Southern 
chivalry,  were  there.  Garland  and  Morgan  and  Harris  and 
Coke  were  there,  and  Beck  with  his  sledge-hammer  intellect. 
It  was  an  arena  of  opposing  gladiators  more  magnificent  and 
majestic  than  was  ever  witnessed  in  the  palmiest  days  of  the 
Roman  Empire.  There  were  giants  in  the  Senate  in  those 
days,  and  when  they  clashed  shields  and  measured  swords  in 
debate  the  Capitol  trembled  and  the  E'ation  thrilled  in  every 
nerve. 

But  how  like  the  ocean's  ebb  and  flow  are  the  restless  tides 
of  politics.  These  scenes  of  grandeur  and  glory  soon  dissolved 
from  my  view  like  a  dream.  I  "saved  the  country"  for  only 
two  short  years.  My  competitor  proved  a  lively  corpse.  He 
burst  forth  from  the  tomb  like  a  locust  from  its  shell  and  came 
buzzing  to  the  National  Capitol  with  "war  on  his  wings."  I 
went  buzzing  back  to  the  mountains  to  dream  again  under  the 
sycamores,  and  there  a  new  ambition  was  kindled  in  my  soul.  A 
new  vision  opened  before  me.  I  saw  another  capitol  rise  on 
the  bank  of  the  Cumberland,  overshadowing  the  tomb  of  Polk 
and  close  by  the  Hermitage,  where  reposes  the  sacred  dust  of 
Andrew  Jackson,  and  I  thought  if  I  could  only  reach  the  exalted 
position  of  Governor  of  the  old  Volunteer  State  I  would  then 
have  gained  the  sum  of  life's  honors  and  happiness.  But  lo! 
another  son  of  my  father  and  mother  was  dreaming  there  under 
the  same  old  sycamores.  We  had  dreamed  together  in  the  same 
trundle  bed  and  often  kicked  each  other  out.  Together  we  had 
seen  visions  of  pumpkin  pie  and  pulled  hair  for  the  biggest  slice. 
Together  we  had  smoked  the  first  cigar  and  together  learned  to 
play  the  fiddle.  But  now  the  dreams  of  our  manhood  clashed. 
Relentless  fate  had  decreed  that  "York  must  contend  with  Lan- 
caster" in  the  "war  of  the  roses,"  and  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
throbbing  hearts  we  eagerly  entered  the  field,  his  shield  bearing 
the  red  rose,  mine  the  white.  It  was  a  contest  of  principles  free 
from  the  wormwood  and  gall  of  personalities,  and  when  the  mul- 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  83 

titude  of  partisans  gathered  at  the  hustings,  a  white  rose  on 
every  Democratic  bosom,  a  red  rose  on  every  Republican  breast, 
in  the  midst  of  a  wilderness  of  flowers,  there  was  many  a  tilt 
and  many  a  loud  huzzah.  But  when  the  clouds  of  war  had 
cleared  away  I  looked  upon  the  drooping  red  rose  on  the  bosom 
of  the  vanquished  knight  and  thought  of  the  first  speech  my 
mother  ever  taught  me : 

"Man's  a  vapor,  full  of  woes — 
Cuts  a  caper — down  he  goes !" 

The  white  rose  triumphed,  but  the  shadow  is  fairer  than  the 
substance.  The  pathway  of  ambition  is  marked  at  every  mile 
with  the  grave  of  some  sweet  pleasure,  slain  by  the  hand  of 
sacrifice.  It  bristles  with  thorns  planted  by  the  fingers  of  envy 
and  hate,  and  as  we  climb  the  rugged  heights,  behind  us  lie  our 
bloody  footprints,  before  us  tower  still  greater  heights,  scarred 
by  tempests  and  wrapped  in  eternal  snow.  Like  the  Edelweiss 
of  the  Alps,  ambition's  pleasures  bloom  in  the  chill  air  of  per- 
petual frost,  and  he  who  reaches  the  summit  will  look  down  with 
longing  eyes  on  the  humbler  plain  of  life  below  and  wish  his 
feet  had  never  wandered  from  its  warmer  sunshine  and  sweeter 
flowers. 

FKOM  THE   CAVE   MAN   TO   THE   "kISS-OPHONE."" 

But  let  us  not  forget  that  it  is  better  for  us  and  better  for 
the  world  that  we  dream,  and  that  we  tread  the  thorny  paths, 
and  climb  the  weary  steeps,  and  leave  our  bloody  tracks  behind 
in  the  pursuit  of  our  dreams.  For  in  their  extravagant  con- 
ceptions lie  the  germs  of  human  government  and  invention  and 
discovery;  and  from  their  mysterious  vagaries  springs  the  mo- 
tive power  of  the  world's  progress.  Our  civilization  is  the  evo- 
lution of  dreams.  The  rude  tribes  of  primeval  men  dwelt  in 
caves  until  some  unwashed  savage  dreamed  that  damp  caverns 
and  unholy  smells  were  not  in  accord  with  the  principles  of 
hygiene.  It  dawned  upon  his  MIGHTY  intellect  that  one  flat 
stone  would  lie  on  top  of  another,  and  that  a  little  mud,  aided 
by  Sir  Isaac  E'ewton's  law  of  gravitation,  would  hold  them  to- 
gether, and  that  walls  could  be  built  in  the  form  of  a  quadrangle. 
Here  was  the  birth  of  architecture.    And  thus  from  the  magical 


84  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

dreams  of  this  unmausoleumed  barbarian  was  evolved  the  home 
• — the  best  and  sweetest  evolution  of  man's  civilization. 

John  Howard  Payne  touched  the  tenderest  chord  that 
vibrates  in  the  great  heart  of  all  humankind  when  he  gave  to 
immortality  his  song  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  and  thank  God 
the  grand  mansions  and  palaces  of  the  rich  do  not  hold  all  the 
happiness  and  nobility  of  this  world.  There  are  millions  of 
humble  cottages  where  virtue  resides  in  the  warmth  and  purity 
of  vestal  fires  and  where  contentment  dwells  like  perpetual 
summer. 

The  Antediluvians  plowed  with  a  forked  stick,  with  one 
prong  for  the  beam  and  the  other  for  the  scratcher ;  and  the 
plowboy  and  his  sleepy  ox  had  no  choice  of  prongs  to  hitch  to. 
It  was  all  the  same  to  Adam  whether  "Buck"  was  yoked  to  the 
beam  or  the  scratcher.  But  some  noble  Cincinnatus  dreamed  of 
the  burnished  plowshare,  genius  wrought  his  dream  into  steel, 
and  now  the  polished  Oliver  chill  slices  the  earth  like  a  hot 
knife  plowing  a  field  of  Jersey  butter,  and  the  modern  gang 
plow,  bearing  upon  its  wheels  the  gloved  and  umbrella'd  leader 
of  the  Populist  party,  plows  up  the  whole  face  of  the  earth  in  a. 
single  day. 

What  a  wonderful  workshop  is  the  brain  of  man !  Its  noise- 
less machinery  cuts  and  carves  and  moulds  in  the  imponder- 
able material  of  ideas.  It  works  its  endless  miracles  through 
the  brawny  arm  of  labor  and  the  deft  fingers  of  skill,  and  the 
world  moves  forward  by  its  magic.  Aladdin  rubbed  his  lamp 
and  the  shadowy  genii  of  fable  performed  impossible  wonders. 
The  dreamer  of  today  rubs  his  fingers  through  his  hair  and  the 
genii  of  his  intellect  work  miracles  which  eclipse  the  m-ost  ex- 
travagant fantasies  of  the  "Arabian  Nights."  A  dreamer  saw 
the  imprisoned  vapor  throw  open  the  lid  of  a  teakettle,  and,  lo! 
a  steam  engine  came  pufiing  from  his  brain.  And  now  many 
a  huge  monster  of  Corliss — beautiful  as  a  vision  of  Archimedes 
and  smooth  in  movement  as  a  wheeling  planet — sends  its  thrill 
of  life  and  power  through  mammoth  plants  of  humming  ma- 
chinery. The  fiery  courser  of  the  steel-bound  track  shoots  over 
hill  and  plain  like  a  midnight  meteor  through  the  fields  of 
heaven,  outstripping  the  wind.  A  dreamer  carried  about  in  his 
brain  a  great  leviathan.    It  was  launched  upon  the  billows,  and 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  85 

like  some  colossal  swan  the  palatial  steamship  now  sweeps  in 
majesty  througli  the  blue  wastes  of  old  ocean. 

Six  hundred  years  before  Christ  some  old  Greek  discov- 
ered electricity  by  rubbing  a  piece  of  amber,  and,  unable  to 
grasp  the  mystery,  he  called  it  soul.  His  discovery  slept  for 
more  than  two  thousand  years  until  it  awoke  in  the  dreams  of 
Galvani  and  Volta  and  Benjamin  Franklin.  In  the  morning 
of  the  nineteenth  century  the  sculptor  and  scientist,  Morse,  saw 
in  his  dreams  phantom  lightnings  leap  across  continents  and 
oceans,  and  felt  the  pulse  of  thunder  beat  as  it  came  bounding 
ov0r  threads  of  iron  that  girdled  the  earth.  In  each  throb  he 
read  a  human  thought.  The  electric  telegraph  merged  from  his 
brain  like  Minerva  from  the  brow  of  Jove,  and  the  world  re- 
ceived a  fresh  baptism  of  light  and  glory. 

In  a  few  more  years  we  will  step  over  the  threshold  of  the 
twentieth  century.  What  greater  wonders  will  the  dreamers 
yet  unfold  ?  It  may  be  that  another  magician,  greater  even 
than  Edison,  the  "Wizard  of  Menloe  Park,"  will  rise  up  and 
coax  the  very  laws  of  nature  into  easy  compliance  with  his 
unheard-of  dreams.  I  think  he  will  construct  an  electric  rail- 
way in  the  form  of  a  huge  tube  and  call  it  the  "electro-scoot," 
and  passengers  will  enter  it  in  New  York  and  touch  a  button 
and  arrive  in  San  Francisco  two  hours  before  they  started.  I 
think  a  new  discovery  will  be  made  by  which  the  young  man  of 
the  future  may  stand  at  his  "kiss-o-phone"  in  Xew  York  and 
kiss  his  sweetheart  in  Chicago  with  all  the  delightful  sensations 
of  "the  aforesaid  and  the  same."  I  think  some  Leibig  will  re- 
duce foods  to  their  last  analysis,  and,  by  an  ultimate  concen- 
tration of  their  elements,  will  enable  the  man  of  the  future  to 
carry  a  year's  provisions  in  his  vest  pocket.  The  sucking  dude 
will  store  his  rations  in  the  head  of  his  cane,  and  the  commis- 
sary department  of  a  whole  army  will  consist  of  a  mule  and  a 
pair  of  saddlebags.  A  trainload  of  cabbage  will  be  transported 
in  a  sardine  box  and  a  thousand  fat  Texas  cattle  in  an  oyster 
can.  Power  will  be  condensed  from  a  forty-horse  engine 
to  a  quart  cup.  Wagons  will  roll  by  the  power  in  their  axles, 
and  the  cushions  of  our  buggies  will  cover  the  force  that  propels 
them.     The  armies  of  the  future  will  fight  with  chained  light- 


86  LECTURES    OF    ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

ning,   and   the   battlefield   will   become  so   hot  and   unhealthy 
that 

"He  who  fights  and  runs  away" 
Will  never  fight  another  day. 

Some  dreaming  Icarus  will  perfect  the  flying  machine,  and 
upon  the  aluminum  wings  of  the  swift  Pegasus  of  the  air  the 
light-hearted  society  girl  will  sail  among  the  stars,  and 

"Behind  some  dark  cloud,  where  no  one  is  allowed, 
Make  love  to  the  man  in  the  moon." 

The  rainbow  will  be  converted  into  a  Ferris  wheel ;  all  men 
will  be  bald-headed ;  the  women  will  run  the  government — and 
then  I  think  the  end  of  time  will  be  near  at  hand. 


DEEAMS  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


I  heard  a  song  of  love,  and  tenderness,  and  sadness,  and 
beauty  sweeter  than  the  song  of  a  nightingale.  It  was  breathed 
from  the  soul  of  Robert  Burns.  I  heard  a  song  of  deepest  pas- 
sion surging  like  the  tempest-tossed  waves  of  the  sea.  It  was 
the  restless  spirit  of  Lord  Byron.  I  heard  a  mournful  melody 
of  despairing  love — full  of  that  wild,  mad,  hopeless  longing  of 
a  bereaved  soul  which  the  midnight  raven  mocked  at  with  that 
bitterest  of  all  words — "JSTevermore."  It  was  the  weird  thren- 
ody of  the  brilliant  but  ill-starred  Poe,  who,  like  a  meteor, 
blazed  but  for  a  moment,  dazzling  a  hemisphere,  and  then  went 
out  forever  in  the  darkness  of  death. 

Then  I  w-as  exalted  and  lifted  into  the  serene  sunlight  of 
peace  as  I  listened  to  the  spirit  of  faith  pouring  out  in  the  songs 
of  our  own  immortal  Longfellow. 

With  Milton  I  walked  the  scented  isles  of  long-lost  Paradise 
and  caught  the  odor  of  its  bloom  and  the  swell  of  its  music. 
He  led  me  through  its  rose  brakes,  and  under  the  vermilion  and 
flame  of  its  orchids  and  honeysuckles,  down  to  the  margin  of 
the  limpid  river,  where  the  waterlilies  slept  in  fadeless  beauty 
and  the  lotus  nodded  to  the  rippling  waves ;  and  there,  under 
a  bridal  arch  of  orange  blossoms,  cordonned  by  palms  and  many- 
colored  flowers,  I  saw  a  vision  of  bliss  and  beauty  from  which 
Satan  turned  away  with  an  envy  that  stabbed  him  with  pangs 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  87 

unfelt  before  in  hell.    It  was  earth's  first  visiou  of  wedded  love. 

But  the  horizon  of  Shakespeare  was  broader  than  them  all. 
There  is  no  depth  which  he  has  not  sounded,  no  height  which 
he  has  not  measured.  He  walked  in  the  gardens  of  the  intel- 
lectual gods  and  gathered  sweets  for  the  soul  from  a  thousand 
unwithering  flowers.  He  caught  music  from  the  spheres  and 
beauty  from  ten  thousand  fields  of  light.  His  brain  was  a 
mighty  loom.  His  genius  gathered  and  classified ;  his  imagina- 
tion spun  and  wove.  The  flying  shuttle  of  his  fancy  delivered 
to  the  warp  of  wisdom  and  philosophy  the  shining  threads  spun 
from  the  fibres  of  human  hearts  and  human  experience,  and 
with  his  wondrous  woof  of  pictured  tapestries  he  clothed  all 
thought  in  the  bridal  robes  of  immortality.  His  mind  was  a 
resistless  flood  that  deluged  the  w^orld  of  literature  with  his 
glory.  The  succeeding  poets  are  but  survivors  as  by  the  ark, 
and,  like  the  ancient  dove,  they  gather  and  weave  into  garlands 
only  the  "flotsam  and  jetsam"  of  beauty  which  floats  on  the 
bosom  of  the  Shakespearean  flood. 

O,  Shakespeare,  archangel  of  poetry!  The  light  from  thy 
wings  drowns  the  stars  and  flashes  thy  glory  on  the  civilizations 
of  the  whole  world ! 

"Unwearied,  unfettered,  unwatched,   unconfined, 
Be  my  spirit  like  thee  in  the  world  of  the  mind — 
No  leaning  for  earth  e'er  to  weary  its  flight. 
But  fresh  as  thy  pinions  in  regions  of  light." 

All  honor  to  the  poets,  and  philosophers,  and  painters,  and 
sculptors,  and  musicians  of  the  world!  They  are  its  honey 
bees,  its  song  birds,  its  carrier  doves,  its  ministering  angels. 


VISIONS  OF  DEPARTED  GLORY. 

I  walked  with  Gibbon  and  Hume  through  the  sombre  halls  of 
the  past,  and  caught  visions  of  the  glory  of  the  classic  republics 
and  empires  that  flourished  long  ago  and  whose  very  dust  is 
still  eloquent  with  the  story  of  departed  greatness.  The  spirit 
of  genius  lingers  there  still  like  the  fragrance  of  roses  faded 
and  gone. 


88  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

I  thought  I  heard  the  harp  of  Pindar  and  the  impassioned 
song  of  the  dark-eyed  Sappho.  I  thought  I  heard  the  lofty 
epic  of  the  blind  Homer  rushing  on  in  the  red  tide  of  battle,  and 
the  divine  Plato  discoursing  like  an  oracle  in  his  academic 
shades. 

The  canvas  spoke  and  the  marble  breathed  when  Apelles 
painted  and  Phidias  carved. 

I  stood  with  Angelo  and  saw  him  chisel  his  dreams  from 
the  marble.  I  saw  Raphael  spread  his  visions  of  beauty  in  im- 
mortal colors.  I  sat  under  the  spirit  of  Paganini's  power;  the 
flow  of  his  melody  turned  the  very  air  to  music.  I  thought  I 
was  in  the  presence  of  Divinity  as  I  listened  to  the  warbles 
and  murmurs  and  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  silver  tides  from  his 
violin,  and  I  said:  Music  is  the  dearest  gift  of  God  to  man. 
The  sea,  the  forest,  the  field  and  the  meadow  are  the  very  foun- 
tain heads  of  music.  I  believe  that  Mozart,  and  Mendelssohn, 
and  Schubert,  and  Verdi,  and  all  the  great  masters  caught  their 
sweetest  dreams  from  nature's  musicians.  I  think  their  richest 
airs  of  mirth  and  gladness  and  joy  were  stolen  from  the  purling 
rivulet  and  the  rippling  river.  I  believe  their  grandest  in- 
spirations were  born  of  the  tempest  and  the  thunder  and  the 
rolling  billows  of  the  angry  ocean. 


nature's  musicians. 


I  sat  on  the  grassy  brink  of  a  mountain  stream  in  the  gath- 
ering twilight  of  evening.  The  shadowy  woods  around  me  be- 
came a  great  theatre.  The  greensward  before  me  was  its  stage. 
The  tinkling  bell  of  a  passing  herd  rang  up  the  curtain,  and  I 
sat  there  all  alone  in  the  hush  of  the  dying  day  and  listened  to 
a  concert  of  nature's  musicians  who  sing  as  God  has  taught 
them  to  sing.  The  orchestra  opened  with  a  grand  flourish.  The 
katydid  led  off  with  a  trombone  solo ;  the  cricket  chimed  in  with 
his  E  flat  cornet;  the  bumblebee  played  on  his  violincello,  and 
the  jaybird  laughed  with  his  piccolo;  the  jar-fly  clashed  hig 
tinkling  cymbal,  and  the  woodpecker  rattled  his  kettle  drum. 
The  music  swelled  to  grandeur  with  the  deep  bass  horn  of  the 
big  black  beetle,  and  sank  into  soulful  sweetness  with  the  oriole's 
leading  violin.     The  mocking  bird's  flute  brought  me  to  tears 


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VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  89 

of  rapture,  and  the  screech  owl's  fife  made  me  want  to  fight. 
The  tree-frog  blew  his  alto  horn,  and  the  locust  jingled  his  tam- 
bourine. The  tide  of  melody  rolled  along  like  a  sparkling  river, 
but  the  buzzard  lowered  his  baton  and  the  music  sank  into  a 
soft  and  gentle  flow,  when  Signor  "Bullefroggio,"  the  world- 
renowned  basso,  hopped  upon  the  stage  and  sang  a  melody  from 
the  new  opera  of  "Visions  and  Dreams" — "Eocked  in  the  cra- 
dle of  the  deep — jugger-um."  Then  the  renowned  tenor,  Ilerr 
Von  "Grasshopper,"  appeared  on  the  stage  with  a  hop,  skip,  and 
a  jump  and  rendered  his  difiicult  but  merry  lines,  composed  in 
his  honor  by  his  admiring  friend,  Professor  Turkey  Gobbler. 
But  while  he  sang  Professor  Gobbler  slipped  up  behind  him 
with  open  mouth  and  Ilerr  Von  Grasshopper  vanished  from  the 
footlights  forevermore. 

In  the  midst  of  the  concert,  from  a  neighboring  field,  a 
mountain  swain  homeward  on  his  weary  plow  horse  passed. 
The  plodding  steps  and  jingling  chains  kept  time  to  the  music 
of  the  orchestra  in  sweet  accompaniment  with  the  plowman  as 
he  sang  his  simple  love  song: 

"  'Way  down  in  some  lonesome  valley,  in  some  lonesome  place, 
Whur  the  night  bird  doth  whistle,  his  notes  to  increase, 
I'll  think  of  purty  Saro',  whose  waist  are  so  neat, 
For  I  want  no  better  pastime  than  to  be  with  my  sweet." 

Then  I  saw  a  lassie  standing  among  the  Hollyhocks.  The 
youth  had  paused  before  the  door  of  a  happy  mountain  home. 
I  saw  him  slip  his  arm  around  "something,"  and  heard  a  suspi- 
cious smack,  like  the  squeak  of  a  new  boot.  The  lassie  vanished 
in  the  cabin,  the  lad  vanished  over  the  hill,  and  as  he  vanished 
he  swung  his  hat  in  the  shadows  and  continued  to  sing.  And 
the  birds  inclined  their  heads  to  listen  to  his  song  as  it  died 
away  on  the  drowsy  summer  air. 

That  night  I  slept  in  a  mansion.  But  I  closed  my  eyes  on 
"garnished  rooms  to  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms" 
and  love  among  the  hollyhocks.  ViTiile  I  dreamed  I  was  sere- 
naded by  a  band  of  mosquitoes,  and  this  is  the  song  they  sang 
above  my  pillow: 

"Hush,  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber — 
Holy  angels  guard  your  bed — 
Heavenl}'  'skeeters'  without  number 
Buzzing  'round  your  old  bald  head." 

(6) 


90  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

THE  FIGHTING  PREACHER. 

There  is  no  land  on  earth  which  has  produced  such  quaint 
and  curious  characters  as  the  great  mountainous  regions  of  the 
South,  and  yet  no  country  has  produced  nobler  or  brainier 
men. 

When  I  was  a  barefooted  boy  my  grandfather's  old  grist 
mill  was  the  Mecca  of  the  mountaineers.  They  gathered  there 
on  the  rainy  days  to  talk  politics  and  religion,  and  to  drink 
"mountain  dew,"  and  fight.  Adam  Wheezer  was  a  tall, 
spindle-shanked  old  settler,  as  dark  as  an  Indian,  and  he  wore 
a  broad,  hungry  grin  that  always  grew  broader  at  the  sight  of 
a  fat  sheep.  The  most  prominent  trait  of  Adam's  character, 
next  to  his  love  of  mutton,  was  his  bravery.  He  stood  in  the 
mill  one  day  with  his  empty  sack  under  his  arm,  as  usual,  when 
Bert  Linch,  the  bully  of  the  mountains,  with  an  eye  like  a 
game  rooster's,  walked  up  to  him  and  said:  "Adam,  you've 
bin  a-slanderin'  of  me,  an'  I'm  a-gwine  to  give  you  a  thrashin'." 
He  seized  Adam  by  the  throat  and  backed  him  under  the  meal 
spout.  Adam  opened  his  mouth  to  squall  and  it  spouted  meal 
like  a  whale.  He  made  a  surge  for  breath  and  liberty  and 
tossed  Bert  away  like  a  feather.  Then  he  shot  out  of  the  mill 
door  like  a  rocket,  leaving  his  old,  battered  plug  hat  and  one 
prong  of  his  coat  tail  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  He  ran 
through  the  creek  and  knocked  it  dry  as  he  went.  He  made  a 
bee  line  for  my  grand  father's  house,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away, 
on  the  hill.  He  burst  into  the  sitting-room,  covered  with  meal 
and  panting  like  a  bellowsed  horse,  frightening  my  grandmother 
almost  into  hysterics.  The  old  lady  screamed  and  shouted, 
"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter,  Adam?"  Adam  replied, 
"That  there  'durned'  Bert  Linch  is  down  yonder  a-tryin'  to  raise 
a  fuss  with  me." 

But  every  dog  has  his  day.  Brother  Billy  Patterson 
preached  from  the  door  of  the  mill  on  the  following  Sunday. 
It  was  his  first  sermon  in  that  "neck  of  the  woods,"  and  he 
began  his  ministrations  with  a  powerful  discourse,  hurling  his 
anathemas  against  Satan  and  sin  and  every  kind  of  wickedness. 
He  denounced  whiskey.  He  branded  the  bully  as  a  brute  and  a 
moral  coward,  and  impersonated  Bert,  having  witnessed  his  bat- 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  QI 

tie  with  Adam.  This  was  too  much  for  the  champion.  He  re- 
solved to  "thrash"  Brother  Patterson,  and  in  a  few  days  they  met 
at  the  mill.  Bert  squared  himself  and  said:  "Parson,  you  had 
your  turn  last  Sunday — it's  mine  today.  Pull  off  that  broad- 
cloth an'  take  your  medicine.  I'm  a-gwine  to  suck  the  marrow 
out'n  them  ol'  bones  o'  yourn."  The  pious  preacher  pleaded  for 
peace,  but  without  avail.  At  last  he  said:  "Then  if  nothing 
but  a  fight  will  satisfy  you,  will  you  allow  me  to  kneel  down 
and  say  my  prayer  before  we  fight?"  "Oh,  yes,  that's  all  right, 
parson,"  said  Bert.  "But  cut  your  prayer  short,  for  I'm  a-gwine 
to  give  you  a  good,  sound  thrashin'."  The  preacher  knelt  and 
thus  began  to  pray:  "Oh,  Lord,  thou  knowest  that  when  I 
killed  Bill  Cummings,  and  John  Brown,  and  Jerry  Smith,  and 
Levi  Bottles  that  I  did  it  in  self-defense.  Thou  knowest,  O 
Lord,  that  when  I  cut  the  heart  out  of  young  Sliger  and  strewed 
the  ground  with  the  brains  of  Paddy  Miles  that  it  was  forced 
upon  me,  and  that  I  did  it  in  great  agony  of  soul.  And  now. 
O  Lord,  I  am  about  to  be  forced  to  put  in  his  coffin  this  poor, 
miserable  wretch  who  has  attacked  me  here  today.  O  Lord, 
have  mercy  upon  his  soul  and  take  care  of  his  helpless  widow 
and  orphans  when  he  is  gone."  And  he  rose  whetting  his  knife 
on  his  shoe  sole  and  singing: 

"Hark  from  the  tomb  a  doleful  sound — 
Mine   ears  attend  the  cry." 

But  when  he  looked  around  Bert  was  gone.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  sight  but  a  little  cloud  of  dust,  far  up  the  road,  following 
in  the  wake  of  the  vanishing  champion. 


BROTHER   ESTEP    AND   THE    TRUMPET. 

During  the  great  revival  which  followed  Brother  Patterson's 
first  sermon  and  effective  prayer,  the  hour  for  the  old-fashioned 
Methodist  love  feast  arrived.  Old  Brother  Estep,  in  his  enthu- 
siasm on  such  occasions,  sometimes  "stretched  his  blanket."  It 
was  his  glory  to  get  up  a  sensation  among  the  brethren.  He 
rose  and  said :  "Brethren,  while  I  was  a  walkin'  in  my  gyardin^ 
late  yisterday  evenin',   a  meditatin'  on  the  final  eend  of  the 


92  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

world,  I  looked  up  an'  I  seed  Gabriel  raise  his  silver  trumpet, 
which  was  about  fifty  feet  long,  to  his  blazin'  lips,  and  I  beam 
him  give  it  a  toot  that  knocked  me  into  the  fence  corner  an' 
shuck  the  very  taters  out'n  the  ground."  "Tut-tut,"  said  the 
old  parson.  "Don't  talk  that  way  in  this  meeting.  We  all  know 
you  didn't  hear  Gabriel  blow  his  trumpet."  The  old  man's  wife 
jumped  to  her  feet  to  help  her  husband  out,  and  said:  "Now, 
parson,  you  set  down.  Don't  you  dispute  John's  word  that 
awav — he  mout  a-hearn  a  toot  or  two." 


''WAMPER-JAW'''    AT    THE    JOLLIFICATION. 

The  sideboard  of  those  good  old  times  would  have  thrown 
the  Prohibition  candidate  of  today  into  spasms.  It  sparkled 
with  cut  glass  decanters  full  of  the  juices  of  corn  and  rye  and 
apple.  The  old  'Squire  of  the  mill  "deestrict"  had  as  many 
sweet  buzzing  friends  as  any  flower  garden  or  cider  press  in 
Christendom.  The  most  industrious  bee  that  sucked  at  the 
'Squire's  sideboard  was  old  "Wamper-Jaw."  His  mouth  reached 
from  ear  to  ear  and  was  inlaid  with  huge  gums  as  red  as  ver- 
milion, and  when  he  laughed  it  had  the  appearance  of  lightning. 

On  the  triumphant  day  of  the  'Squire's  re-election  to  his 
great  office,  when  every  thing  was  lovely  and  "the  goose  hung 
high,"  he  was  surrounded  by  a  large  crowd  of  his  fellow-citizens ; 
and  Thomas  Jefferson,  in  his  palmiest  days,  never  looked 
grander  than  did  the  'Squire  on  this  occasion.  He  was  attired 
in  his  best  suit  of  homespun — the  choicest  product  of  his  wife's 
dye  pot.  His  immense  vest,  with  its  broad,  luminous  stripes, 
checked  the  rotundity  of  his  ample  stomach  like  the  lines  of 
latitude  and  longitude,  and  resembled  a  half-finished  map  of 
the  United  States.  His  blue  jeans  coat  covered  his  body  as  the 
waters  cover  the  face  of  the  great  deep,  and  its  huge  collar  en- 
circled the  back  of  his  head  like  belts  of  light  around  a  planet. 

The  'Squire  was  regaling  his  friends  with  his  latest  side- 
splitting jokes.  Old  "Wamper-Jaw"  threw  himself  back  in  his 
chair  and  exploded  with  peal  after  peal  of  laughter.  But  sud- 
denly he  looked  around  and  said:  "Gentulmen,  my  jaw's  flew 
out'n  jint."  His  comrades  seized  him  and  pulled  him  all  over 
the  yard  trying  to  get  it  back.     Finally  old  "Wamper-Jaw" 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  93 

mounted  his  mule  and  with  pounding  heels  rode  like  Tarn 
O'Shanter  to  the  nearest  doctor,  who  lived  two  miles  away.  The 
doctor  gave  his  jaw  a  mysterious  yank  and  it  popped  back  into 
socket.  "Wamper-Jaw"  rushed  back  to  join  in  the  festivities 
at  the  'Squire's.  The  glasses  were  filled  again,  another  side- 
splitting joke  was  told,  and  another  peal  of  laughter  went 
'round,  when  "Wamper-Jaw"  threw  his  hand  to  his  face  and 
said:  "Gen-tul-men,  she's  out  agin!"  There  was  another  hasty 
ride  for  the  doctor.  But  in  the  years  that  followed  "Wamper- 
Jaw"  was  never  known  to  laugh  aloud.  On  the  most  hilarious 
occasions  he  merely  showed  his  gums. 


THE    TINTINNABrLATION    OF    THE   DINNER   BELLS. 

How  many  millions  dream  on  the  lowest  plains  of  life ! 
How  few  ever  reach  the  highest,  and,  like  stars  of  the  first  mag- 
nitude, shed  their  light  upon  the  pathway  of  the  marching  cen- 
turies! What  multitudes  there  are  whose  horizons  are  lighted 
with  visions  and  dreams  of  the  flesh-pots  and  soup  bowls,  whose 
Fallstafiian  aspirations  never  rise  above  the  fat  things  of  this 
earth,  and  whose  ear  flaps  are  forever  inclined  forward,  listen- 
ing for  the  dinner  bells: 

"The  bells,  bells,  bells— 

What    a    world    of    pleasure    their  harmony    foretells — 

The  bells,  bells,  bells— bells,  bells,  bells— 

The  tintinnabulation  of  the  dinner  bells." 

In  my  native  mountains  there  once  lived  one  of  these  old 
gluttonous  dreamers.  I  think  he  was  the  champion  eater  of  the 
world.  Many  a  time  I  have  seen  him  at  my  grandfather's  table, 
and  the  viands  and  batter-cakes  vanished  "like  the  baseless 
fabric  of  a  vision" — he  left  "not  a  wreck  behind" — but  one  day, 
in  the  voracity  of  his  sharklike  appetite,  he  unfortunately  un- 
dertook too  large  a  contract  for  the  retirement  of  an  immense 
slice  of  ham.  It  scraped  its  way  doAvn  his  esophagus  for  about 
two  inches  and  lodged  as  tightly  as  a  bullet  in  a  rusty  gun.  His 
prodigious  Adam's  apple  suddenly  shot  up  to  his  chin,  his  eyes 
protruded,  and  his  purple  neck  craned  and  shortened  by  turns 
like  a  trombone  in  full  blast.    He  scrambled  from  the  table  and 


94  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

pranced  about  the  room  like  a  horse  with  blind  staggers.  My 
grandfather  sprang  at  him  and  dealt  him  blow  after  blow  in 
the  back  which  sounded  like  the  blows  of  a  mallet  on  a  dry  hide, 
but  the  ham  Avouldn't  budge.  The  old  man  ran  out  into  the 
yard  and  seized  a  plank  about  three  feet  long  and  rushed  into 
the  room  with  it  drawn.  "Now,  William,"  said  he,  "get  down 
on  your  all-fours."  William  got  down.  "Now,  William,  when 
I  hit,  you  swallow."  He  hit  and  it  poi)pcd  like  a  Winchester 
rifle.  William  shot  into  the  corner  of  the  room  like  a  shell 
from  a  mortar,  but  in  a  moment  he  was  seated  at  his  place  at 
the  table  again  with  a  broad  grin  on  his  face.  "Is  it  down, 
William?"  shouted  the  old  man.  "Yes,  Mr.  Haynes,  the 
'durned'  thing's  gone — please  pass  the  ham." 

I  thought  how  vividly  that  old  glutton  illustrated  the  fools 
who,  in  their  efforts  to  gulp  down  the  sensual  pleasures  of  this 
world,  choke  the  soul,  and  nothing  but  the  clapboard  of  hard 
experience,  well  laid  on,  can  dislodge  the  ham  and  restore  the 
equilibrium. 


PHANTOMS  OF  THE  WINE   CUP. 

A  little  below  the  glutton  lies  the  plane  of  the  drunkard, 
whose  visions  and  dreams  are  bounded  by  the  horizon  of  a  still- 
tub.  "A  little  wine  for  the  stomach's  sake  is  good,"  but  in  the 
trembling  hand  of  a  drunkard  every  crimson  drop  that  glows  in 
the  cup  is  crushed  from  the  roses  that  once  bloomed  on  the 
cheeks  of  some  helpless  woman;  every  phantom  of  beauty  that 
dances  in  it  is  a  devil;  and  yet  millions  quaff,  and,  with  a  hide- 
ous laugh,  go  staggering  to  the  grave. 

Were  you  never  regaled  with  the  story  of  the  midnight  vision 
of  the  drunkard  ?  His  friends  carried  him  home  and  laid  him 
on  his  bed,  and  procured  a  monkey  and  tied  it  to  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  In  the  dead  hours  of  the  night  he  awoke  from  his 
stupor  and  discovered  the  monkey  crouching  before  him.  Then, 
reaching  around  for  his  revolver,  he  remarked:  "If  you  are  a 
monkey,  you're  in  a  devil  of  a  fix — hie.  If  you  ain't  a  monkey — 
hie — I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  fix." 


VISIONS    AND   DREAMS  95 

THE    MISSING    LINK. 

A  little  below  the  plane  of  the  flrnnkard  is  the  dnde — that 
missing  link  between  monkey  and  man,  whose  dream  of  happi- 
ness is  a  single  eyeglass,  a  kangaroo  strut,  and  three  hours  of 
conversation  without  a  sensible  sentence ;  whose  only  conception 
of  life  is  to  splurge,  and  flirt,  and  spend  his  father's  fortune. 
Out  of  the  fullness  of  his  heart  his  mouth  singeth : 

"I'm   a   dandy — I'm   a   swell — 
Just   from   college — can't  you   tell? 
I'm  the  beau  of  every  belle — 
I'm  the  swellest  of  the  swell. 

"I'm  the  king  at  all  the  balls— 
I'm  a  prince  in  banquet  halls. 
My  daddy's  rich — they  know  it  well — 
I'm  the  swellest  of  the  swell." 


NIGHTMARE. 

Unhappily  for  us  all,  in  the  world  of  visions  and  dreams 
there  is  a  dark  side  to  human  life.  Here  have  been  dreamed 
out  all  the  crimes  which  have  steeped  our  race  in  shame  since 
the  expulsion  from  Eden,  and  all  the  wars  that  have  cursed  man- 
kind since  the  birth  of  historv.  Alexander  the  Great  was  a 
monster  whose  sword  drank  the  blood  of  a  conquered  world. 
Julius  Caesar  marched  his  invincible  armies,  like  juggernauts, 
over  the  necks  of  fallen  nations.  ISTapoleon  Bonaparte  rose  with 
the  morninsr  of  the  nineteenth  centurv  and  stood  like  some 
frightful  comet  on  its  troubled  horizon.  Distraught  with  the 
dream  of  conquest  and  empire,  he  hovered  like  a  god  on  the 
verge  of  battle.  Kings  and  emperors  stood  aghast.  The  sun  of 
Austerlitz  was  the  rising  sun  of  his  glory  and  power,  but  it  went 
down  veiled  in  the  red  clouds  of  Waterloo,  and  l^apoleon  the 
Great,  uncrowned,  unthroned,  and  stunned  by  the  dreadful  shock 
that  annihilated  the  Grand  Army  and  the  Old  Guard,  wan- 
dered aimlessly  about  on  the  lost  field  in  the  gloom  that  palled 
a  fallen  empire,  as  Hugo  describes  him,  "the  somnambulist  of 
a  vast  shattered  dream." 


96  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

INFIDELITY. 

It  is  in  the  desert  of  evil,  where  virtue  trembles  to  tread, 
where  hope  falters  and  where  faith  is  crucified,  that  the  infidel 
dreams.  To  him  all  there  is  of  heaven  is  bounded  by  this  little 
span  of  life ;  all  there  is  of  pleasure  and  love  is  circumscribed 
by  a  few  fleeting  years;  all  there  is  of  beauty  is  mortal;  all 
there  is  of  intelligence  and  wisdom  is  in  the  human  brain;  all 
there  is  of  mystery  and  infinity  is  fathomable  by  human  rea- 
son; and  all  there  is  of  virtue  is  measured  bv  the  relations  of 
man  to  man.  To  him  all  must  end  in  the  "tongueless  silence 
of  the  dreamless  dust,"  and  all  that  lies  beyond  the  grave  is  a 
voiceless  shore  and  a  starless  sky.  To  him  there  are  no  prints 
of  deathless  feet  on  its  echoless  sands,  no  thrill  of  immortal 
music  in  its  joyless  air.  He  has  lost  his  God,  and,  like  some 
fallen  seraph  flying  in  rayless  night,  he  gropes  his  way  on 
flagging  pinions,  searching  for  light  where  darkness  reigns,  for 
life  where  death  is  king. 


THE  DEEAM  OF  GOD. 

I  have  wondered  a  thousand  times  if  an  infidel  ever  looked 
through  a  telescope.  The  universe  is  the  dream  of  God  and  the 
heavens  declare  his  glory.  There  is  our  mighty  sun,  robed  in 
the  brightness  of  his  eternal  fires,  and  with  his  planets  forever 
wheeling  around  him.  Yonder  are  Mercury  and  Venus,  and 
there  is  Mars,  the  ruddy  globe,  whose  poles  are  white  with  snow, 
and  whose  other  zones  seem  dotted  with  seas  and  continents. 
Who  knows  but  that  his  roseate  color  is  only  the  blush  of  his 
flowers  ?  Who  knows  but  that  Mars  may  now  be  a  Paradise,  in- 
habited by  a  blessed  race,  unsullied  by  sin,  untouched  by  death  ? 
There  is  the  giant  orb  of  Jupiter,  the  champion  of  the  skies, 
belted  and  sashed  with  vapor  and  clouds;  and  Saturn,  haloed 
with  bands  of  light  and  jeweled  with  eight  ruddy  moons ;  and 
there  is  Uranus,  another  stupendous  world,  speeding  on  in  the 
prodigious  circle  of  his  tireless  journey  around  the  sun;  and 
yet  another  orbit  cuts  the  outer  rim  of  our  system,  and  on  its 
gloomy  pathway  the  lonely  Neptune  walks  the  cold,  dim  soli- 
tudes of  space.     In  the  immeasurable  depths  beyond  appear 


VISIONS   AND   DREAMS  97 

millions  of  suns  so  distant  that  their  light  could  not  reach  us  in 
a  thousand  years.     There,  spangling  the  curtains  of  the  black 
profound,  shine  the  constellations  that  sparkle  like  the  crown 
jewels  of  God.     There  are  double  and  triple  and  quadruple 
suns  of  different  colors  commingling  their  gorgeous  hues  and 
flaming  like  archangels  on  the  frontier  of  stellar  space.     If  we 
look  beyond  the  most  distant  star,  the  black  walls  are  flecked 
with  innumerable  patches  of  filmy  light,  like  the  dewy  gos- 
samers of  the  spider's  loom  that  dot  our  fields  at  morn.     What 
beautiful  forms  we  trace  among  those  phantoms  of  light — cir- 
cles, and  ellipses,  and  crowns,  and  shields,  and  spiral  wreaths  of 
palest  silver — and  what  are  they  ?    Did  I  say  phantoms  of  light  ? 
The  telescope  resolves  them  into  millions  of  suns,  standing  out 
from  the  oceans  of  white-hot  matter  that  contains  the  germs  of 
countless  systems  yet  to  be;  and  so  far  removed  from  us  are 
these  suns  that  the  light  which  comes  from  them  to  us  has  been 
speeding  on  its  way  for  more  than  two  million  years.    What  is 
that  white  belt  we  call  the  Milky  Way  which  spans  the  heavens 
and  sparkles  like  a  Sahara  of  diamonds  ?    It  is  a  river  of  stars ; 
it  is  a  gulf  stream  of  suns,  and  if  each  of  these  suns  holds  in 
his  grasp  a  mighty  system  of  planets,  as  ours  does,  how  many 
multiplied  millions  of  worlds  like  our  own  are  now  circling  in 
that  innumerable  concourse?    Oh,  where  are  the  bounds  of  this 
Divine  conception?     Where  ends  this  dream  of  God?     And  is 
there  no  life  and  intelligence  in  all  this  throng  of  spheres  ?    Are 
there  no  sails  on  those  far-away  summer  seas,  no  wings  to  cleave 
those  crystal  airs,  no  forms  divine  to  walk  those  radiant  fields  ? 
Are  there  no  eyes  to  see  those  floods  of  light,  no  hearts  to  share 
with  ours  that  love  which  holds  all  those  mighty  orbs  in  place  ? 
It  cannot  be,  it  cannot  be !     Surely  there  is  a  God !    If  there  is 
not,  life  is  a  dream,  human  experience  is  a  phantom,  and  the 
universe  is  a  flaunting  lie. 


LOVE,  LAUGHTER.  AND 

SONG 


LOVE,  LAUGHTER,  AND  SONG 

I  am  a  King.  My  realm  hath  no  boundary  lines ;  the  world 
is  my  kingdom.  I  stamp  my  foot  upon  the  earth  and  jostle  the 
universe.  The  sun  gives  light  for  my  pleasure,  and  the  timid 
stars  tremble  in  my  presence.  The  oceans  are  my  highways,  and 
the  mountains  are  my  temples,  on  whose  purple  domes  I  love  to 
stand  and  throw  kisses  at  the  angels,  or  look  down  and  view 
with  rapture  the  peaceful  flocks  that  graze  and  sleep  on  a  thou- 
sand sunny  hills.  All  the  fruited  and  flowered  landscapes  that 
swing  between  the  seas  are  my  royal  hanging  gardens,  and  I 
walk  in  the  glow  of  their  glory  and  rest  in  the  gloam  of  their 
sweet  solitudes.  All  the  springs  that  bubble  there  are  mine,  and 
all  the  bright  streams  that  leap  from  cliff  to  crag  and  from  crag 
to  shadowy  gorge  are  my  wandering  minstrels  singing  to  me 
of  flowers  born  to  blush  unseen,  and  speckled  trout  that  glint  and 
glance  in  a  thousand  brimming  pools.  All  the  wild  deer  that 
spring  from  shady  copse  and  tangled  covert  at  the  sound  of 
the  hunter's  horn  are  my  imperial  game  and  for  my  princely 
sport.  The  sly  old  fox  in  his  red  uniform  gaily  leads  the  royal 
band,  and  plays  drum  major  for  my  bellowing  hounds  and  for 
me.  The  glossy  herds  come  lowing  from  green  pastures,  fra- 
grant with  the  breath  of  clover  blossoms,  burdened  with  milk 
for  me;  and  the  bees  sweeten  my  lips  with  honey,  stolen  from 
the  lips  of  the  flowers.  The  hills  unfold  their  purple  mysteries 
to  herald  my  glory,  and  the  valleys  flaunt  their  banners  of  gold 
and  shout:  "Long  live  the  King!"  I  love  to  while  away  the 
dreamy  summer  hours  in  the  cool,  green  groves  that  curtain  the 
glimmering  fields,  where  all  the  joyous  wings  that  brush  the 
air  come  fluttering  to  my  leafy  bowers,  and  all  the  birds  that 
sing  warble  their  sweetest  notes  for  me. 

I  am  a  King.  I  dwell  in  the  palace  of  love,  by  the  brawling 
brook  of  laughter,  on  the  brink  of  the  river  of  song.  And  so 
are  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Adam  equal  Kings  and  Queens 
with  me,  whose  hearts  beat  time  to  Nature's  music  and  whose 
souls  are  in  love  with  the  beautiful.     There  is  a  crown  of  sun- 


102  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

shine  for  every  brow  by  day,  a  coronet  of  stars  by  night.  The 
angels  of  light  hover  above  us  all,  and  arch  the  heavens  with 
the  rainbow  of  hope  for  all,  and  bring  from  the  vapory  vineyards 
of  the  clouds  the  sparkling  champagne  of  pure  crystal  water  to 
bless  the  lips  of  all.  All  the  delightful  dreams  that  spread  their 
wings  above  the  horizon  of  the  heart,  all  the  glorious  thoughts 
that  fly  out  from  the  heaven  of  the  brain,  all  the  jubilees  of 
joy  that  crowd  the  circling  hours  of  mortal  life,  are  the  regal 
gifts  of  God  to  mankind — the  royal  heritage  of  all.  There  are 
songs  sweeter  than  were  ever  sung,  there  is  beauty  which  defies 
even  the  brush  of  a  Raphael,  for  you  and  for  me  and  for  us  all. 

I  saw  the  Morning,  with  purple  quiver  and  crimson  bow, 
stand  tiptoe  on  the  horizon  and  shoot  sunbeams  at  the  vanishing 
darkness  of  night.  Then  I  saw  her  reach  up  and  gather  the  stars 
and  hide  them  in  her  bosom,  and  then  bend  down  and  tickle 
the  slumbering  world  with  straws  of  light  till  it  woke  with  laugh- 
ter and  with  song.  A  thousand  bugle  calls  from  the  rosy  fires 
of  the  east  heralded  her  coming;  a  thousand  smiling  meadows 
kissed  her  garments  as  she  passed,  and  ten  thousand  laughing 
gardens  waved  their  flower  flags  to  greet  her;  the  heart  of  the 
deep  forest  throbbed  a  tribute  of  bird  song,  and  the  bright 
waters  rippled  a  melody  of  welcome.  Young  life  and  love, 
radiant  with  hope  and  sparkling  with  the  dewdrops  of  exultant 
joy,  came  hand  in  hand,  tripping  and  dancing  in  her  shining 
train,  and  I  wished  that  the  morning  might  last  forever. 

I  saw  the  Evening  hang  her  silver  crescent  on  the  sky,  and 
rival  the  splendor  of  the  dawn  with  the  glory  of  the  twilight; 
I  saw  her  fill  her  dipper  full  of  dewdrops  and  her  basket  full  of 
dreams,  and  then  wrap  the  shadows  around  her,  and,  with  a 
lullaby  on  her  lips,  rock  the  weary  world  to  rest;  then  I  saw 
her  slip  back  to  the  horizon  of  the  morning  and  steal  the  stars 
again.  The  gardens  furled  their  flower  flags,  and  the  meadows 
fell  asleep ;  the  songs  of  the  deep  forest  melted  into  sighs,  and 
the  melancholy  waters  whispered  a  pensive  good-night  to  the 
drowsy  birds  and  sleepy  hollows.  Life  and  Love,  with  a  halo  of 
departing  day  upon  their  brows  and  the  starlight  tangled  in 
their  hair,  walked  arm  in  arm  among  the  gathering  shadows 
and  wove  all  the  sweet  memories  of  the  morning  into  their  happy 


LOVE,    LAUGHTER   AND   SONG  TO3 

evening  song,  and  I  wished  that  the  evening  might  never  end. 
So, 

The  mornings  come,  the  evenings  go, 
Till  raven  locks  turn  white  as  snow; 
The  evenings  go,  the  mornings  come, 
Till  hearts  are  still  and  lips  are  dumb; 
The  morning  steals  the  stars  in  vain. 
For  evening  steals  them  back  again. 

The  mornings  are  the  rapturous  thoughts  of  God ;  the  even- 
ings are  His  glorious  dreams.  We  think  within  His  thoughts, 
and  dream  within  His  dreams.  The  sun  and  stars  are  His 
mighty  looms  on  which  he  weaves  the  lights  and  shadows  that 
tint  the  earth  and  sky  with  colors  divine.  But  let  those  looms 
of  light  for  a  moment  stop,  let  their  blissful  shuttles  cease  to 
fly,  and  instantly  this  beautiful  world  of  ours,  with  all  its  bloom 
and  beauXy  blighted,  with  all  its  mirth  and  music  hushed,  would 
lie  naked  and  dead  on  the  cold  bosom  of  eternal  night. 

So  it  is  with  human  life.  It  hath  its  spirit  looms  and  its 
throbbing  shuttles  forever  delivering  to  the  warp  and  woof  of 
hope  and  memory  the  shining  threads  of  human  kindness,  and 
weaving  them  into  gossamer  webs  of  love  around  our  hearts 
and  in  our  homes.  Every  tender  word  we  speak,  every  blessing 
we  bestow,  is  a  thread  of  sunshine  woven  into  somebody's  life; 
and  all  the  smiles  and  sympathies  which  come  to  us  from  other 
hearts  are  threads  of  light  and  love  woven  into  our  own.  But 
let  the  loom  of  love  for  a  moment  stop,  let  its  blissful  shuttle 
cease  to  fly,  and  that  moment  happiness  will  lie  dead  on  the 
hea^'thstone  and  laughter  will  perish  among  the  roses  at  the 
door. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  named  my  speech  "Love, 
Laughter  and  Song,"  because  they  are  the  all  in  all  of  life, 
taking  root  in  the  heart,  blossoming  in  beauty  on  the  lips,  and 
breathing  the  fragrance  of  happiness  in  every  home. 

All  men  are  Kings,  but  Love  is  King  of  Kings.  His  impe- 
rial chariot  rumbles  over  the  cobblestones  of  human  hearts, 
and  the  sighing  millions  are  his  worshipers.  Wealth  bows  its 
haughty  head  before  his  throne  and  pays  penance  w^ith  jewels 
and  gold;  labor  bends  the  reverent  knee  and  counts  its  beads 
of  sweat ;  commerce  folds  its  snowy  wings  and  kneels  on  the  bil- 
lows in  mute  but  eloquent  adoration ;  and  art  chisels  down  the 


104  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

oold,  white  prison  walls  of  shapeless  marble,  and  leads  dumb 
beauty  forth,  a  breathless  prayer  to  Love. 

Love  is  the  only  despot  against  whose  tyranny  no  nation 
ever  rebels ;  his  yoke  is  the  twining  of  tender  arms,  and  the  crack 
of  his  whip  is  a  guileless  kiss.  Love  is  a  regal  anarchist;  he 
climbs  the  ladder  of  laughter  and  throws  bombshells  of  mirth 
into  the  palace  of  the  heart.  Love  is  a  royal  minstrel ;  he  scales 
the  harp  strings  of  song  and  serenades  the  soul.  Love  rides 
on  the  wings  of  butterflies,  and,  with  his  silken  lariat,  lassoes 
strolling  lovers  and  leads  them  down  among  the  golden-rods  and 
clover  blossoms.  The  dimples  in  the  chin  of  Mirth  are  the  tell- 
tale tracks  of  Love,  and  he  lurks  among  the  roses  that  bloom 
on  Beauty's  cheek. 

Love  is  an  anarchist;  Love  is  a  King; 
Love  is  a  minstrel;  Love  loves  to  sing; 
Love  is  a  banker;  Love  is  a  tramp; 
Love  loves  the  palace,  and  Love  loves  the  camp ; 
Love  loves  the  timid,  and  Love  loves  the  bold; 
Love  loves  the  children,  and  Love  loves  the  old; 
Love  loves  the  moonlight  where  hearts  verflow; 
Love  loves  the  sweetheart,  and  Love  loves  the  beau. 

O,  what  a  wonderful  magician,  and  what  a  tyrant  King  is 
Love,  the  King  of  Kings ! 

Look  at  the  careworn  faces  in  the  offices  and  counting  rooms 
and  on  the  business  marts  of  the  world ;  look  out  yonder  at  the 
millions  in  the  factories  and  fields,  with  beaded  brows  and 
knotted  muscles  and  calloused  hands,  coining  thought  into  gold 
and  sweat  into  silver.  There  is  a  mighty  power  moving  on  those 
restless  tides.  They  are  sowing  and  reaping  for  the  helpless  and 
the  innocent.  Love  hath  written  his  name  in  every  heart,  and 
in  every  life  there  is  a  love  story.  [N'ow  look  yonder  in  the  pur- 
ple glow  of  eventide.  How  the  millions  dissolve  and  vanish 
among  the  shadows !  The  law  of  the  King  has  been  obeyed,  and 
labor  finds  its  sweet  reward  in  the  palace  of  Love,  by  the  brawl- 
ing brook  of  laughter,  on  the  brink  of  the  river  of  song. 

But,  O,  how  soon  the  palace  crumbles !  And  how  surely  the 
vibrant  streams  run  dry  when  Labor  leaves  his  task  undone  or 
Toil  takes  his  gold  to  other  shrines ! 


Love,  laughter  and  song  105 

If  you  would  keep  the  loom  of  love  in  motion,  you  must  be 
a  flying  shuttle  of  industry  by  day  and  spend  your  evenings  at 
home.  The  shuttle  delivers  the  thread;  you  must  deliver  the 
bread,  and  grease  the  bobbins  with  butter. 

The  shuttle  is  always  in  its  place.  Art  thou,  O  King? 
When  the  light  is  smiling  thorugh  the  window  out  into  the 
darkness,  and  thy  home  is  ringing  with  the  laughter  and  song 
of  children  within,  art  thou  there  to  laugh  and  sing  with  them  ? 
And  when  the  baby  cries  in  the  dead  hours  of  the  night,  dost 
thou  meekly  wear  thy  yoke  of  love  and  walk  the  floor  and 
sweetly  sing  to  thy  screaming  progeny  ?  What  dost  thou  sing, 
O  King,  as  thou  walkest?    Is  this  the  song? 

"Baby,  baby,   dance,   my   darling  baby! 
Down  he  goes,  up  he  goes. 

Ninety  times  as  high  as  the  moon ! 
Baby,  baby,    dance,  my  darling  baby ! 
You  shall  dine  on  cake  and  wine, 

And  eat  with  a  silver  spoon — " 

"Confound  that  rocker!" 

Alas!  too  often  thou  art  found  where  the  sherry  glows  and 
champagne  flows,  and  the  night  is  very,  very  merry,  O  King ! 

I  saw  a  truant  old  gentleman  vanish  from  his  labors  to  a 
carousal  one  evening,  and  that  night  he  went  home  as  drunk  as 
a  lord,  with  unsteady  steps  and  slow,  dreading  the  storm  within, 
and  softly  singing  to  himself  as  he  went: 

"I  wish  my  wife  was  an  angel,  far,  far  away." 

The  Queen  of  the  household,  who  had  been  nursing  her  rage, 
met  him  at  the  door  with  a  face  like  a  drawn  tomahawk ;  and  the 
clock  struck  one  and  she  struck  two  as  he  entered.  "How  dare 
you  come  home  to  me  at  this  hour  of  the  night?"  she  shouted, 
in  her  anger. 

"Why,  my  dear,  it  was  jis'  ten  o'clock  when  I  left  prayer 
meetin',  an'  I  come  right  straight  home." 

"Yes,  prayer  meeting!  You  look  like  prayer  meeting! 
Look  at  the  hands  on  the  dial  of  that  clock;  it  has  just  struck 
one!" 

(7)  ...... 


I06  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

"Well,  now,  madam,"  he  said,  "if  you  propose  to  believe  a 
durned  little  dollar-and-a-half  clock  before  you'll  believe  your 
husband,  that's  all  right;  but  I  shall  certainly  think  that  I 
have  not  found  the  amiable  spirit  in  this  palace  of  love  which 
I  expected  to  find  on  my  arrival." 

And  the  thread  of  love  popped,  and  the  loom  stopped  for 
several  hours. 

An  uncrowned  old  King  went  to  his  little  palace  one  night 
under  the  influence  of  King  Alcohol,  as  usual.  His  unhappy 
wife  let  him  in  the  door  and  burst  into  tears  and  said :  "Hus- 
band, why  do  you  come  home  every  night  in  this  drunken  con- 
dition?""^ 

"Why,"  he  said,  "my  dear,  you  are  so  pretty  that  I  jist  nat- 
urally love  to  look  at  you  double!" 

I  saw  a  little  slippered  and  skirted  dream  of  beauty  with 
sunny  curls,  peeping  out  from  under  the  tiny  hanging  garden 
of  a  summer  hat,  and  romping  and  frollicking  in  the  ecstasy  of 
life's  happy  morning.  Her  cheeks  were  full  of  roses,  her  lips 
were  full  of  laughter,  and  her  heart  was  full  of  song.  The 
little  winged  god  of  love  stood  tiptoe  on  the  horizon  of  her 
delightful  eyes  and  shot  golden  arrows  at  throbbing  hearts ;  and 
all  who  came  within  range  of  those  arrows  fell  dead — in  love. 
The  morning  never  kissed  a  face  more  beautiful;  the  evening 
never  folded  in  its  arms  a  fairer  form.  Her  life  was  an  end- 
less chain  of  sunshine  and  pleasure.  She  flitted  like  a  fairy 
among  the  poppies  and  pansies,  and  read  poems  and  love  stories 
under  the  spreading  trees,  or,  with  her  happy  companions, 
shouted  with  girlish  glee,  and  gathered  ferns  and  violets  and 
wove  them  into  garlands  among  the  twittering  bluebirds  and 
tinkling  cow  bells  down  by  the  riverside  in  the  deep-tangled 
wildwood. 

And  when  the  sylvan  carnival  of  the  day  had  ended  and 
darkness  brooded  like  a  gentle  spirit  over  the  world,  there  were 
lights  in  the  window^s  and  luminous  lanterns  on  the  lawn.  I  saw 
a  jubilant  throng  of  dreams  in  summer  dresses,  and  do^vny- 
lipped  dreamers  in  pantaloons  assemble  and  crowed  around  her, 
with  hearts  attuned  to  the  lyrics  of  love  and  levity  and  faces 
all  aglow  with  joy.  Then  I  saw  her  sweep  the  vibrant  harp 
strings  beneath  the  smiling  roof  of  home  and  tangle  its  tender 


Love,  laughter  and  song  107 

chords  with  the  tremulous  tones  of  flute  and  violin  and  the 
notes  of  mellow  voices  until  heaven  descended  to  earth  and 
angels  seemed  to  sing.  Cupid  danced  in  every  eye,  and  laughter 
s^\alng  corners  with  every  song. 

But  the  music  turned  a  somersault  into  the  whirlpool  of 
mirth  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  old  Uncle  Rastus 
appeared  in  full  evening  dress,  with  bows  and  smiles  and  all 
the  pompous  airs  of  a  lord  to  the  manner  born.  There  was 
eloquence  in  the  old  man's  voice  when  he  said :  "  'Sense  me, 
childrun;  but  I  thought  I  heard  de  angels  sing,  an'  I  jist 
concluded  I  would  'lucidate  some  juicy  tunes  from  de  straw- 
berry patch  and  cunjer  a  few  frozen  songs  from  de  ice  cream 
freezer  to  melt  on  yo'  lips  an'  mingle  wid  de  hallelujahs  uv  yo' 
music  while  yo'  is  a-jinin'  in  de  jubilation  of  dis  most  melodious 
occasion."  And  there  was  the  clapping  of  hands  for  Uncle 
Rastus,  the  ebony  song  of  the  pantry,  the  king  of  the  old  plan- 
tation, the  white-headed  memory  of  a  civilization  that  died  long 
ago.  Then  there  was  the  rustling  of  silks  and  the  coupling  of 
arms,  and  the  love-sick  parlor  reluctantly  tossed  its  bouquet 
of  youth  and  beauty  to  the  jealous  and  impatient  dining  room, 
where  Uncle  Rastus  and  his  dusky  subordinates  darted  hither 
and  thither  like  blackbirds  among  the  lilies,  bearing  ponderous 
waiters  burdened  with  creams,  and  berries,  and  kisses,  and  lady 
fingers,  and  all  the  delightful  accompaniments  of  a  birthday 
party  in  June.  It  was,  indeed,  a  melodious  occasion,  and  "all 
went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell"  until  the  delicious  delicacies 
evaporated  into  sweet  memories;  then  the  tired  and  disgusted 
dining  room  threw  the  giggling  bouquet  out  into  the  lap  of  the 
lawn,  where  love  sought  the  shadows,  and  laughter  played  hide- 
and-seek  with  the  lanterns  dimly  burning.  But  lawn  parties 
are  like  plays.  They  require  the  rapid  shifting  of  the  scenes  to 
give  variety  to  the  entertainment  and  jewel  the  passing  hours 
with  pleasure.  And  so  the  harp  quivered  again,  and  the  glad 
leaves  trembled,  and  the  stars  twinkled,  and  the  young  folks 
flocked  from  among  the  shadows  to  join  in  a  medley  of  songs 
which  rose  and  fell  on  the  air  like  the  chiming  of  distant  bells, 
until  the  music  charmed  Uncle  Rastus  from  the  wreck  of  berries 
and  creams  as  the  candle  charms  the  moth. 


I08  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

''Lo'd  bless  my  soul !  Jis'  look  at  dat  chile  wid  dat  harp  in 
'er  han'!"  he  shouted,  as  the  melody  died  away.  "De  snows 
of  seventy  winters  is  on  dis  ol'  head  of  mine;  but  when  she 
sweeps  dem  strings,  she  strikes  all  de  chords  of  dis  ol'  heart 
an'  makes  me  young  ag'in.  De  blossoms  of  eighteen  summers 
is  on  'er  cheeks  tonight,  but  it  seems  only  yistiddy  when  she 
was  a  little  baby  gal  playin'  aroun'  de  knees  of  my  ol'  wife, 
Chloe,  who  sleeps  out  yonder  on  de  hill  close  by  de  spot  whar 
ol'  mistis  sleeps.  Don't  you  remember,  honey,  how  yo'  ol'  black 
mammy  used  to  take  you  on  her  lap  an'  tell  you  stories  about 
de  ol'  bugger  man  till  yo'  little  eyes  got  big  as  sassers?  An' 
don't  you  remember  how  she  used  to  make  rabbits  for  yo'  out  uv 
de  handkerchief,  an'  fro'  shadows  on  de  wall  wid  her  ban's, 
an'  sing  de  ol'-time  lullabies,  an'  rock  you  to  sleep  on  'er 
bosom  every  night?  Dey  ain't  no  mo'  black  mammies  now; 
dem  happy  days  is  gone;  an'  yit,  ever  since  Chloe  died,  honey, 
I'se  been  a-rockin'  yo'  in  de  purple  cradle  uv  my  heart.  But 
de  ol'  worn-out  cradle's  a-gwyne  to  stop  rockin'  some  uv  dese 
days.  Some  uv  dese  days  de  chariot  of  de  Lo'd's  gwjme  to  swing- 
low,  an'  den  yo'  Uncle  Rastus  is  gwyne  home  to  de  ol'  white 
folks  an'  to  Chloe."    And  he  bowed  his  head  and  softly  sang: 

"Swing  low,  sweet  chariot,  coming  for  to  carry  me  home; 
Swing  low,  sweet  chariot,  coming  for  to  carry  me  home." 

And  I  think  there  was  a  tear  stain  on  the  cheek  of  Merriment 
that  night. 

But  the  dewdrops  of  the  evening  cannot  last  long  in  the 
presence  of  the  morning.  A  thoughtless  lad  from  the  outer  rim 
of  the  crowd  threw  a  very  ripe  tomato.  It  struck  Uncle  Rastus 
square  on  the  upper  lip  and  stuck.  The  old  man  walled  his 
eyes  a  few  times  and  shouted  with  great  dignity:  "Lookey 
hear,  young  man !  I's  a  great  mind  to  carry  dis  heah  'madus 
jist  whar  it  sets  an'  show  it  to  yo'  father!"  This  untimely 
incident  came  Avithin  a  hair's  breadth  of  eliminating  Uncle 
Rastus  from  the  revelry  of  the  evening ;  but  a  few  more  quarters 
pacified  the  old  man,  and,  yielding  to  the  clamors  of  the  eager 
throng,  he  agreed  to  "dismember  de  occasion  wid  a  few  varia- 
tions uv  de  programme,  jis'  to  please  dat  chile  wid  de  harp  in 
'er  ban'."  "Childun,"  he  began,  "dis  is  a  strange  ol'  world  we 
lives  in.    De  poor  gits  rich,  an'  de  rich  gits  poor;  de  lean  gits 


LOVE,    LAUGHTER   AND   SONG  IO9 

fat,  an'  de  fat  gits  lean ;  de  young  gits  old,  an'  de  old  has  to  die 
to  git  out  iiv  de  way;  some  quits  weepin'  to  laugh,  an'  some 
quits  laughin'  to  weep;  an'  it's  jis'  like  Uncle  Remus's  story  uv 
de  fox  an'  de  wolf.  Brudder  Fox  went  to  de  well  one  night  to 
git  'im  a  drink  of  water.  It  was  one  uv  dese  here  kind  uv 
wells  what  has  a  pulley  over  it,  an'  a  chain  over  de  pulley, 
wid  buckets  on  boaf  ends  uv  de  chain;  an'  when  one  bucket 
goes  up,  de  other  goes  down.  Brudder  Fox,  he  jumped  into  de 
bucket  what  was  up  to  git  him  a  drink,  an'  down  went  de 
bucket  wid  him;  an'  dar  he  viiiz  paddlin'  aroun'  screamin'  for 
help  in  de  bottom  uv  de  well.  Brudder  Wolf  was  a-prowlin' 
around,,  an'  he  heard  Brudder  Fox  a-screamin',  an'  he  poked 
his  head  over  de  well  an'  asked  Brudder  Fox  what  he  was 
a-doin'  do^vn.  dar.  'Fishin' !'  shouted  Brudder  Fox.  'Dis  hear 
well's  full  uv  fish.'  Brudder  Wolf  say:  'I  loves  fish  myself.' 
'Well,  den,'  Brudder  Fox  say,  ^git  in  dat  bucket,  Brudder  Wolf, 
an'  come  down.'  Brudder  Wolf  hopped  into  de  bucket  an' 
started  down,  an'  Brudder  Fox  hopped  in  his  bucket  an'  started 
up ;  an'  as  dey  passed  on  de  halfway  ground,  Brudder  Fox  say 
to  Brudder  Wolf,  wid  a  grin:  ^\h,  Brudder  Wolf,  dis  world 
goes  'roun'  an'  'roun',  and  some  goes  up  an'  some  goes  down.' 
An'  dat's  de  way  it  is  wid  courtship,  childrun.  De  young  man 
what  goes  prowlin'  aroun'  de  hearts  uv  de  girls  had  better  be 
keerful  about  gittin'  in  de  bucket,  case  dar's  liable  to  be  a  fox 
in  de  well,  an'  somebody's  a-gwyne  to  git  dro^vnded  sho'.  It's 
jist  'zactly  in  love  like  it  is  wid  religion  an'  politics.  Dis  world 
goes  'roun'  an'  'roun',  an'  some  goes  up  an'  some  goes  do\vn," 
And  Uncle  Rastus  looked  very  wise  as  he  continued :  "Dar's  a 
wonderful  correspondence  'twixt  de  animal  kingdom  an'  de 
human  race.  De  lion  is  de  king  uv  de  forest,  an'  de  man  dat 
corresponds  to  de  lion  is  king  among  men ;  de  hog  breaks  into  de 
garden  an'  roots  up  all  de  flowers,  an'  dar's  folks  jis'  like  de  hog 
— dey  breaks  into  the  garden  of  de  heart  an'  roots  up  all  de 
flowers  uv  happiness;  den  dar's  some  like  de  billy  goat — alius 
a-gittin'  mad  an'  buttin'  dey  heads  ag'in'  de  wall ;  an'  dar's  some 
like  de  yaller  dog — all  bark  an'  no  bite;  an'  den,  ag'in,  dar's 
some  like  de  bear — you  better  lef  him  alone,  case  he's  a-gwyne 
to  hurt  you  sho'.'* 


no  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

And  to  illustrate  this  proposition,  Uncle  Rastiis  told  the 
story  of  Uncle  Nicodemus  and  the  bear.  He  said:  "Uncle 
Nicodemus  was  a-wipin'  out  his  ol'  rifle  one  day,  an'  Aunt  Dina 
said  to  him :  'What  you  a-gwyne  to  do,  ISTicodemus  V  'AVhat  I 
gwyne  to  do  ?  I'se  a-gwyne  out  heah  in  de  woods  an'  fetch  you 
a  bear  for  supper.'  'Yes,  you's  a-gwyne  to  fetch  me  a  bear; 
you'll  do  scrimpscious  well  ef  you  fetches  me  a  rabbit  or  a 
'possum.'  An',  sho'  nuf,"  he  said,  "Uncle  ISTicodemus  went  out 
into  de  woods;  an',  to  his  distonishment,  he  met  a  bear,  an' 
blazed  away  at  'im  wid  his  ol'  rifle  an'  wounded  'im,  an'  de 
infuriated  animal  tuck  after  Uncle  Nioodemus,  an'  de  ol'  man 
come  out  of  de  w^oods  shoutin'  at  de  top  of  'is  voice :  'Open  de 
door,  Dina;  open  de  door!'  Aunt  Dina  opened  de  door,  an' 
^icodemus  darted  in,  an'  she  slammed  it  to,  an'  den  fell  over 
on  de  bed  screamin'  like  a  pant'er  an'  laughin'  like  she  was 
a-gwyne  into  fits.  As  soon  as  Uncle  Nicodemus  could  git  'is 
bref,  he  riz  up  an'  said:  'What's  you  laughin'  at,  Dina?' 
'Bless  de  Lo'd!'  Aunt  Dina  said.  'Nicodemus  said  he  was  a- 
gwyne  to  fetch  me  a  bear,  an'  de  bear  fotch  him !'  De  chickens 
will  come  home  to  roost,"  said  the  old  man.  "Yes,  sir,  de 
chickens  will  come  home  to  roost." 

"Well,  which  do  you  like  the  best — the  white  chicken  or  the 
black  chicken — Uncle  Rastus  ?"  interrupted  a  mischievous  lad 
in  the  crowd. 

"Well,  it's  dis  way,  childun,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  grin. 
"De  white  chicken  is  de  easiest  chicken  to  locate  on  de  roost 
after  dark,  but  de  black  chicken  is  de  easiest  hid  after  you  gits 
'im.    I  believes  I  prefers  de  black  Langshang." 

"N^ow  sing  us  an  old-time  darky  song!"  shouted  the  revelers, 
and  this  is  the  song  he  sang: 

"Nicodeimis,  the  slave,  was  of  African  birtli, 

And  he  lived  long  ago  very  old. 
He  was  reckoned  as  part  of  the  salt  of  the  earth, 

And  was  bought  for  a  bag  full  of  gold. 
'Twas  his  last  sad  request  when  we  laid  him  to  rest 

In  de  trunk  of  an  old  hollow  tree, 
Wake  me  up  in  de  morn  at  de  broke  of  de  day; 

Wake  me  up  to  de  great  jubilee. 
Dar's  a  good  time  comin';  it's  almost  here; 

'Twas  long,  long,  long  on  de  way. 
Oh,  run  and  tell  Elijah  to  wake  Unc  Pomp! 
Meet  me  at  de  gum  tree  down  in  de  swamp, 

And  wake  Nicodemus  today !" 


LOVE,    LAUGHTER   AND    SONG  III 

Uncle  Rastus  vanished,  but  the  looms  of  love  wove  on,  and 
the  shuttles  of  laughter  and  song  never  ceased  to  fly  until  the 
lamps  went  out  in  the  windows  and  the  lanterns  were  dark  on 
the  la^vn. 

The  clock  struck  two,  and  the  boys  went  home  with  the  girls 
in  the  morning. 

The  scene  changed.  I  heard  the  tolling  of  distant  bells. 
The  evening  of  death  had  stolen  the  stars  of  hope  from  the 
bosom  of  the  morning;  the  angels  had  slipped  in  under  the 
smiling  roof  and  stolen  a  gentle  spirit ;  the  hands  that  swept  the 
harp  strings  were  cold,  the  lips  that  sang  Avere  silent,  and  the 
dazed  and  desolate  youth  who  had  won  her  heart  and  promise 
true  left  the  grave  in  despair  to  drink  his  sorrow  away.  He 
drank  until  his  face  grew  purple  and  fortune  melted  away; 
he  drank  until  his  body  trembled  and  his  clothing  crumbled  into 
rags;  he  drank  until  a  frenzied  old  father  drove  his  idol  from 
the  door  of  home;  and  the  mournful  years  rolled  on.  The 
scene  changed  again.  A  tramp  aimlessly  plodded  his  weary 
way  out  in  the  wide,  wide  world,  with  no  shelter  but  the  sky, 
no  friend  but  Mother  Earth. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  tramp  tramping  by  and  pausing  at  your 
door  to  beg  a  benediction — not  of  love,  but  of  bread  ?  "What 
cared  this  wandering  boy  for  love  ?  His  heart  was  in  the  grave. 
He  was  the  "somnambulist  of  a  shattered  dream;"  he  was  a 
romance  in  rags,  a  seedy  poem,  a  tattered  song,  crumpled  by  the 
hand  of  fate  and  thrown  into  the  waste  basket  of  oblivion.  His 
life  was  an  endless  stroll,  and  he  was  the  smile  of  many  a 
haymow  and  the  sweet  forget-me-not  of  many  a  kitchen ;  he  was 
the  fragrant  touch-me-not  of  the  woodpile  and  the  garden.  He 
stood  knee  deep  in  the  snow  of  winter  and  sang:  "Summer 
days  will  come  again."  He  toiled  over  the  cross-ties  in  the  heat 
of  the  summer's  sun  and  sighed  for  icebergs  and  crags  of  snow. 

He  sidled  up  one  bright  afternoon  to  the  home  of  a  good 
old  sister  in  Israel,  and  humbly  asked  for  something  to  eat. 
The  old  lady  passed  him  out  a  large  slice  of  cold  lightbread,  and 
solemnly  said:  "Young  man,  I  give  you  this  for  humanity's 
sake."  "Well,  madam,"  he  said,  "for  the  Lord's  sake  put  a  little 
butter  on  it." 


112  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

He  halted  at  a  farmhouse  one  rainy  day  and  proposed  to 
kill  all  the  rats  on  the  place  for  his  dinner,  "Very  well,"  said 
the  farmer;  "it's  a  bargain."  He  called  his  neighbors  in  to  see 
the  killing.  The  tramp  ate  for  an  hour;  and  when  he  had 
finished,  he  called  for  a  spade.  Seating  himself  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  he  raised  the  spade  over  his  shoulder  and  shouted : 
"Now  fetch  on  your  rats !" 

He  stopped  at  an  old  fellow's  door  and  told  him  he  was  a 
dentist,  and  smilingly  proposed  to  put  a  good  set  of  teeth  in  a 
fresh  apple  pie  for  nothing. 

He  hove  to  at  a  cross-roads  tavern,  leading  a  pug  dog  which 
he  had  kidnapped  on  his  way.  He  was  a  superb  ventriloquist, 
and  offered  to  make  the  dog  talk  for  a  good  warm  supper  for 
both.  "All  right,"  said  the  tavern  keeper,  "but  be  sure  you 
make  him  talk,  for  I  have  a  cowhide  here  which  sometimes 
talks  when  tramps  undertake  to  fool  me."  The  tramp  smiled 
and  ate,  while  the  dog  ate  from  a  waiter  at  his  feet.  He  looked 
down  at  his  dog  and  said:  "How  do  you  like  your  supper. 
Carlo  ?"  And  he  threw  his  voice  into  the  mouth  of  the  dog  and 
made  him  say:  "Plenty  of  bone,  but  not  much  meat."  The 
hands  of  the  lookers-on  were  lifted  in  astonishment.  "How 
much  will  you  take  for  that  dog?"  eagerly  asked  the  tavern 
keeper.  "I  don't  want  to  sell  him,"  replied  the  tramp,  busily 
eating.  "I'll  give  you  fifty  dollars  for  him,"  said  the  tavern 
keeper.  The  tramp  dropped  his  knife  and  fork,  and  feigned  to 
weep,  and  said  with  a  sigh:  "You  will  have  to  take  him,  old 
man.  Fifty  dollars  is  a  fortune  to  me,  but  I  would  almost 
rather  die  than  to  part  with  my  dog."  The  money  was  counted 
out.  The  tramp  handed  the  tavern  keeper  the  string  and  started 
for  the  door.  The  dog  undertook  to  follow,  but  the  tavern 
keeper  held  tight  to  the  string.  The  tramp  threw  his  voice 
back  into  the  mouth  of  the  dog  as  he  departed  and  made  him 
say:  "You've  sold  me,  have  you?"  "Yes,  Carlo,"  said  the 
tramp ;  "we  must  part ;  good-by,  good-by."  "All  right,"  said  the 
dog;  "I'll  get  even  with  you  both;  I'll  never  speak  another 
durned  word  while  this  old  fool's  got  me."  And  the  chuckling 
tramp  vanished  in  the  darkness. 

His  fifty  dollars  melted  away  that  night,  and  he  next  dropped 
anchor  in  a  little  town  and  walked  into  a  little  grocery  store, 


LOVE,    LAUGHTER   AND   SONG  113 

where  they  sold  whisky  also,  and  called  for  a  dime's  worth  of 
cheese  and  crackers.  The  groceryman  cut  off  the  cheese  and 
handed  him  the  crackers.  He  looked  at  them  a  minute,  and 
said:  "Will  you  please  take  the  cheese  and  crackers  back 
and  let  me  have  a  drink  of  whisky  in  their  stead  ?"  "Certainly," 
said  the  groceryman ;  and  he  set  the  bottle  out  on  the  counter. 
The  tramp  poured  a  tumbler  half  full  and  drank  it  down,  and 
started  out.  "Hold  on,"  said  the  groceryman;  "you  haven't 
paid  for  that  whisky."  "Yes  I  did.  Didn't  I  give  you  back 
the  cheese  and  crackers  ?"  "Well,  but  you  didn't  pay  me  for  the 
cheese  and  crackers,"  said  the  groceryman.  "I  never  got  'em,  did 
I  ?"  said  the  tramp.  "That's  so,"  said  the  puzzled  groceryman ; 
"you  can  go,  but  I  don't  care  to  trade  any  more  with  you,  my 
friend." 

And  the  tramp  tramped  on  in  the  dusty  road,  which  led  him 
out  through  the  skirting  woods  and  down  by  shadowy  fields  of 
blue  grass,  where  Shorthorns  gTazed  and  race  horses  cantered 
and  played.  On  he  tramped  by  thrifty  farms  and  farmhouses, 
until  the  moon  rose  and  silvered  his  tatters  and  rags,  and  the 
Evening  unfurled  her  "bonnie  blue  flag"  that  bears  a  million 
stars;  on  he  tramped,  listening  to  the  katydid's  lonesome  song 
and  many  a  watchdog's  honest  bark,  catching  glimpses  now  and 
then  of  lights  in  the  darkness,  and  shrinking  back  when  startled 
birds  darted  from  the  bushes  by  the  roadside;  on  he  tramped, 
until  at  length  he  halted  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree  before  the 
door  of  a  happy  country  home,  and,  looking  through  the  open 
window  into  the  lighted  room,  he  saw  Love  and  Contentment 
with  smiling  faces,  rocking  to  and  fro,  while  Laughter  and 
Song  rolled  and  tumbled  on  the  floor.  It  was  a  mirror  maze  of 
memory  reflecting  upon  his  eyes  and  soul  the  scenes  of  his  own 
happy  childhood,  too  bright,  too  beautiful,  to  last ;  and  he  stood 
there  weeping  and  sobbing  in  the  night,  like  a  lost  spirit  peering 
through  the  lighted  window  of  heaven. 

O,  memory,  memory,  thou  hast  power  to  lift  the  veil  and  let 
the  spirit  look  and  listen ;  but  thou  canst  not  lead  us  back  into 
the  fairyland  of  vanished  years.  All  thy  songs  are  phantoms; 
all  thy  faces  and  forms  are  dreams.  The  melancholy  tramp  was 
only  looking,  and  listening,  and  dreaming ;  and  while  he  dreamed 
he  heard  the  soft  strains  of  a  love  song  floating  out  like  the 


114  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

incense  of  flowers  on  the  summer  air,  which  thrilled  him  and 
seemed  to  call  him  with  its  melody.  He  slipped  under  the 
shadow  of  another  tree,  and,  looking  through  the  parlor  win- 
dow, beheld  a  lover,  with  face  all  aglow,  bending  over  a  beau- 
tiful girl,  Avho  played  and  sang  to  him,  and  this  was  the  sweet 
refrain : 

"Oh,  tell  me.  do  you  love  me? 
For  that's  the  sweetest  story  ever  told." 

The  wretched  listener  gathered  up  the  corner  of  his  frazzled 
coat  and  wiped  another  flood  of  tears  from  his  swollen  eyes,  as 
he  thought  of  lips  that  were  dust,  and  a  heart  that  was  still, 
and  songs  that  were  sung  no  more;  and  he  hid  himself  behind 
the  tree  as  the  lovers  came  out  and  walked,  hand  in  hand,  to  the 
gate ;  and  the  lad  vanished,  and  as  he  vanished  he  swung  his  hat 
in  the  shadows  and  sang  back  to  her  his  happy  love  song : 

"Light  of  my  life,  the  apple  of  my  eye, 

I  love  you,  I  love  you. 
Through  nodding  pines  the  gentle  zephyrs  sigh: 

I  love  3'ou,  I  love  you. 
Dancing  through  the  grassy  meadows  where  the  butterflies  swing, 
Laughing  through  the  leafy  woodlands  where  the  happy  birds  sing, 
Fairies  from  the  hills  and  hollows  the  sweet  echoes  bring: 

I  love  you,  I  love  you." 

The  very  air  was  drunk  with  love;  the  tipsy  stars  danced; 
the  maudlin  moonbeams  stumbled  over  a  fleecy  cloud  and  fell 
sprawling  on  the  dreamy  hills;  the  homeless  and  friendless 
tramp  disappeared  among  the  trees  and  there  was  silence.  But 
still  the  years  rolled  on,  and  the  scene  changed  again. 

Eelentless  fate  led  me  into  this  drama  of  sorrow;  destiny 
touched  me,  and  I  could  not  resist  its  power.  I  was  called  to 
labor  among  the  confused  tongues  of  contention  in  the  Babel  of 
politics.  The  brawling  brook  of  laughter  was  turned  into  a 
brook  of  tears,  and  the  river  of  song  became  a  river  of  sighs. 
I  became  a  servant  to  trouble  and  sorrow — a  servant  to  the 
harrowing  cares  of  State. 

I  saw  Love  enter  the  g-ubernatorial  door  to  plead  for  Love 
one  day ;  and  the  old  mother  sat  and  wept  in  the  presence  of  the 
Governor,  while  the  aged  father  told  the  story  of  a  love  that 


LOVE,    LAUGHTER   AND   SONG  II5 

was  wrecked  long  ago,  a  life  that  was  ruined,  and  a  lover  that 
wandered  away  with  the  death  wound  in  his  heart.  Then  I 
heard  him  tell  the  story  of  a  tramp  whose  journey  had  ended  at 
last  within  the  prison  walls,  and  I  went  out  with  them  and  stood 
at  the  gate  of  hell.  I  looked  in  and  saw  the  ghastly  stripes  of 
shame  and  the  pallid  faces  of  crime  moving  to  and  fro,  laboring 
under  the  lash  of  justice  and  shrinking  from  the  scorn  of  their 
fellow  man.  I  entered  and  looked  again.  There  was  not  a  smile 
nor  a  single  peal  of  laughter,  but  a  melancholy  ghost  of  song 
still  lingered  behind  the  iron  bars  to  comfort  languishing  love. 
I  saw  children  of  tender  age  in  that  vortex  of  living  death, 
and  I  said,  "Hell  was  not  made  for  children;"  and  I  dragged 
them  out  and  delivered  them  to  their  mothers.  I  saw  youths 
who  had  committed  crime  in  the  heat  of  passion,  dying  in  dis- 
grace ;  and  I  dragged  them  out  and  sent  them  home — some 
with  a  new  hope,  and  some  to  die.  I  saw  repentant  men  who 
had  suffered  long  enough,  and  I  dragged  them  out  and  gave 
them  to  their  wives  and  children.  I  saw  the  erstwhile  tramp, 
the  romance  in  rags,  the  tattered  song,  now  the  striped  doxology 
of  a  misspent  life.  Two  trembling  hands  pointed  to  him.  I 
turned  to  the  old  folks  and  said,  "His  crime  was  not  great,  and 
you  are  old  and  feeble ;"  and  I  dragged  him  out  and  left  them 
weeping  upon  his  bosom. 

I  saw  ten  thousand  outstretched  hands  and  heard  ten  thou- 
sand cries  for  help,  and  the  critics  raised  their  bristles,  and  the 
scandal  mongers  showed  their  teeth  and  said,  "You  shall  not;" 
but  Love  said,  "You  shall,"  and  Humanity  said,  "You  must ;" 
and  I  did.  And  then  I  shifted  my  burden  to  other  shoulders, 
and — lo !— I  was  a  King  again ;  and  I  dragged  myself  out  of 
the  Babel  of  politics  and  returned  home  to  my  wife  and  children. 

But  the  sun  still  shines  and  the  stars  still  tremble ;  old  Babel 
still  babbles;  this  world  goes  round  and  round,  and  still  the 
tides  of  humanity  ebb  and  flow. 

What  is  life  but  a  whirling  tide  of  pleasure  and  pain,  glow- 
ing with  gladness,  darkening  with  grief,  leaping  with  rapture, 
eddying  with  tears,  now  caressing  the  smiling  cliffs  of  hope, 
now  dashing  against  the  frowuing  crags  of  fear,  and  then  van- 
ishing in  the  darkness  ? 


Il6  LECTURES   OF    ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

How  sweet  it  would  be  if  Love,  in  his  shadow  boat,  with 
silent  oars  and  sails  unseen,  could  be  our  only  convoy  to  guide  us 
among  the  islands  of  happiness,  where  we  might  drop  anchor  in  a 
thousand  harbors  of  laughter  and  song !  But — alas ! — every  sea 
is  green  with  the  sails  of  envy,  and  every  air  is  black  with  the 
flags  of  merciless  pirates,  who  grapple  with  the  shadow  boat, 
and  drag  us  from  the  deck,  and  dash  us  among  the  coral  reefs  of 
sorrow  and  destruction.  No  man  is  safe  on  this  tide  of  life 
who  sails  far  out  to  sea.  It  is  best  to  hug  the  shore,  and,  when 
the  storms  come,  to  anchor  in  some  peaceful  bay  until  the  waters 
are  calm  and  the  skies  are  blue. 

I  saw  an  old  farmer's  happy  children  twine  their  little  arms 
about  his  neck  in  the  morning ;  that  was  the  sunrise  of  love ; 
and  he  went  smiling  and  singing  to  the  fields.  I  saw  them  gTeet 
him  at  the  gate  in  the  evening  and  cover  his  sunburnt  face 
with  kisses;  that  was  the  sweet  reward  of  labor  and  of  love, 
and  heaven  was  reflected  in  his  heart  and  in  his  home.  He  was 
one  of  the  contented  millions  who  hug  the  humble  and  happy 
shore  of  obscurity,  unconscious  of  the  great  political  and  finan- 
cial battles  that  are  daily  waged  far  out  on  the  raging  sea  of 
Avealth  and  power.  He  had  reached  the  meridian  of  life  within 
the  narrow  circle  of  a  rural  tiller  of  the  soil,  in  utter  ignorance 
of  the  struggles  and  turmoils  of  the  outside  world.  But  des- 
tiny touched  him  at  last,  and  led  him  away  from  his  little 
palace  of  love  to  be  a  delegate  in  a  great  convention  in  a  dis- 
tant city.  His  brand-new  Sunday  coat  was  wonderfully  and 
fearfully  made;  it  covered  his  body  as  the  waters  cover  the 
face  of  the  great  deep ;  and  there  was  blue  jeans  enough  in  his 
pantaloons  to  bull  the  wool  market;  and,  with  his  oilcloth 
satchel  and  faded  umbrella,  he  boarded  the  cars  and  started 
on  his  pilgrimage;  and  soon,  with  a  great  throng  of  his  fellow- 
delegates,  he  went  plunging  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  mighty 
city,  which  glowed  and  fiashed  with  a  million  electric  lights,  as 
if  the  angels  had  spilt  a  basket  of  stars.  He  was  deafened  with 
its  roar  and  dazzled  with  its  glory.  He  heard  the  symphonies  of 
business  and  pleasure,  and  the  rattle  and  rumble  of  street  cars 
and  innumerable  vehicles  passing  hither  and  thither  and  brush- 
ing each  other  like  bees  in  a  hive,  and  he  wondered  if  they  did 
all  their  hauling  after  night.     He  was  lost  in  the  midst  of  a 


LOVE,   LAUGHTER  AND  SONG  117 

vast  multitude,  and  he  whispered  to  a  delegate  that  he  "felt 
like  a  needle  in  a  haystack;"  and  finally  he  dragged  himself 
out  of  the  multitude  and  landed  in  the  crowded  rotunda  of  a 
ten-story  hotel,  "slightly  disfigured,  but  still  in  the  ring."  He 
saw  a  hundred  guests  register  on  the  book  of  arrivals,  and  con- 
cluded to  try  his  hand ;  and  when  he  had  registered  his  name,  he 
bent  over  the  counter  and  asked  the  clerk  confidentially  what 
they  charged  for  board.  "From  five  to  fifteen  a  day,"  was  the 
reply.  "Which  ?"  "From  five  to  fifteen  dollars  a  day,  sir,  ac- 
cording to  the  location  of  your  room."  His  mouth  flew  wide 
open  in  speechless  amazement.  "Do  you  wish  a  room  ?"  asked 
the  clerk.  "No,  sir."  "Supper?"  "l^o  sir."  "Breakfast?" 
"No,  sir."  "Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  Haven't  you  registered 
here  on  our  book  of  arrivals?"  "Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "I 
believe  I'll  jist  arrive."  And  he  seized  his  satchel  and  slipped 
out  in  search  of  a  boarding-house. 

The  great  convention  assembled;  and  there  was  the  music 
of  bands,  and  the  flaunting  of  handkerchiefs,  and  the  floating  of 
flags,  and  the  shouting  of  enthusiastic  thousands  when  the  can- 
didate for  President  was  named.  Then  there  was  the  clinking 
of  glasses  and  revelry  everywhere.  But  the  old  delegate  from 
the  humble  palace  of  love  was  unaccustomed  to  the  flowing 
bowl ;  and  as  the  cocktails  and  toddies  flowed,  he  began  to  get 
rich  and  boisterous,  and  finally  went  staggering  down  the  street, 
arm  in  arm  with  a  fellow-delegate,  both  yelling  like  panthers, 
and  swearing  they  could  whip  the  whole  city  of  Chicago.  But 
the  scene  soon  changed,  and  they  were  quietly  sleeping  behind 
the  iron  bars  in  the  station  house.  The  next  morning  when 
their  friends  went  down  to  rescue  the  lost  sheep  of  Israel,  they 
peeped  through  the  bars  and  saw  the  old  man  sitting  up  on  his 
bunk  of  straw,  sweetly  singing  an  old,  familiar  song : 

"Little  Bo-peep,  he's  lost  his  sheep, 
And  don't  know  where  to  find  'em. 
Let  'em  alone,  and  they'll  come  home, 

With  their  tails  hanging  down  behind  'em — " 

"I  wish  I  was  in  Dixie;  look  away,  look  away; 
In  Dixie's  land  I'll  take  my  stand,  to  live  and  die  for  Dixie ; 
Look  away,  look  away,  look  away  down  South  in  Dixie — " 

"Hurrah  for  Jeff  Davis,  by  gosh !" 


Ilg  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

This  song  and  exclamation  aroused  his  fellow-delegate,  who 
was  a  stuttering  gentleman  from  Maine,  and  they  instantly  en- 
gaged in  a  hand-to-hand  fight ;  but  there  were  no  casualties,  and 
"Yankee  Doodle  and  Dixie"  were  soon  parted,  and  made  friends, 
and  went  arm  in  arm  into  the  police  court. 

The  stuttering  delegate  was  put  on  trial  first.  "What  is 
your  name  ?"  asked  the  frowning  judge.  "S-S-S-S-Smith."  The 
judge  turned  around  to  the  captain  of  the  police  and  asked: 
"What  is  this  man  charged  with.  Captain?"  "I  don't  know, 
Your  Honor,"  said  the  captain,  "but  I  think  he  is  charged  with 
soda  pop." 

The  old  son  of  Dixie  came  next.  "What  is  your  name?" 
asked  the  judge.  "Plain  Smith,  Your  Honor,  with  not  so 
many  's's'  as  old  Soda  Pop  Smith  puts  in  his'n."  And  the  two 
Smiths  treated  the  city  government  to  a  couple  of  ten-dollar 
bills,  and  disappeared  in  the  multitude,  arm  in  arm,  softly  sing- 
ing together  as  they  went: 

"Little  Bo-peep,  he's  lost  his  sheep. 
And  don't  know  where  to  find  'em. 
Let  'em  alone,  and  they'll  come  home. 

With  their  tails  hanging  down  behind  'em." 

This  song  was  a  prophecy  of  happiness,  for  soon  the  con- 
vention dissolved,  and  the  two  Smiths  parted  and  went  whirling 
away  in  opposite  directions,  unheralded  and  unsung,  but  bound 
for  "home,  sweet  home."  And  when  at  length  the  old  delegate 
from  Dixie,  with  his  satchel  and  umbrella,  approached  his  little 
palace  of  love  in  the  gloaming,  the  frogs  croaked  "howdy  do," 
and  the  trees  nodded  and  whispered  "howdy  do,"  and  the  old 
mill  wheel  creaked  "howdy  do,"  and  the  whole  face  of  the  earth 
around  him  seemed  to  smile  and  say  "howdy  do."  And  home 
was  never  half  so  sweet  to  him  as  on  that  happy  evening  when 
the  little  arms  were  twined  about  his  neck  again,  and  again  his 
face  was  covered  with  kisses,  and  he  sat  in  the  firelight,  in  the 
presence  of  his  happy  wife,  and  sang  to  his  baby  on  his  knee: 

"Little  Bo-peep,  he  lost  his  sheep. 

And  didn't  know  where  to  find  him. 
He  let  him  alone,  and  he's  come  home, 
With  his  tail  a-hangin'  down  behind  'im." 


Love,  laughter  and  song  119 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  it  was  a  sad  day  when  Satan  found 
his  way  to  earth  and  climbed  over  the  garden  wall.  The  juice 
of  a  single  apple  has  kept  this  world  staggering  for  six  thou- 
sand years,  and  it  is  still  on  the  same  old  spree.  Ever  since 
paradise  was  lost  our  race  has  been  drunk  with  folly,  and  "little 
Bo-peep"  is  always  losing  his  sheep,  and  don't  know  where  to 
find  'em.  Sometimes  they  come  home  with  a  song,  sometimes 
with  a  sigh,  sometimes  with  an  open  countenance,  sometimes 
with  a  sheepish  look,  but  always  with  a 'plausible  tale  hanging 
down  behind  'em. 

The  uppermost  thought  in  the  human  brain  is  pleasure. 
Pleasure  is  the  tempter  of  mankind.  It  distills  in  the  veins 
of  youth  the  blood  of  the  violets  and  lilies,  and  makes  him 
drimk  with  the  desire  to  dance  the  golden  hours  of  life  away. 

Look  at  the  floods  of  light  and  color  glowing  in  the  ball- 
room; listen  to  the  rapturous  flow  of  mirth  and  music,  and  the 
rustling  of  silks  and  ribbons  in  the  whirling  and  floating  mazes 
of  the  delightful  german.  How  graceful !  How  beautiful ! 
How  radiant  with  joy!  How  full  of  the  phantoms  and  en- 
chanting dreams  of  exuberant  young  life !  It  is  the  bright 
stream  of  youth  leaping  from  cliffs  of  laughter  and  song  to 
happy  vales  of  pleasure,  and  breaking  into  pearls  of  folly  and 
the  silvery  foam  of  frivolity;  it  is  the  drunken  hiccoughs  of 
hilarity;  it  is  the  delirium  tremens  of  pleasure. 

Now  turn  away  from  the  whirling  of  society  swells  and 
belles  under  brilliant  chandeliers,  and  take  a  peep  at  the  country 
dance,  where  blazing  pine  knots  flicker  and  shine  on  buxom 
maids  and  rollicking  men.  See  the  fiddler  tune  his  fiddle  for 
the  fray;  and  when  all  is  ready,  he  gives  a  few  sweeps  of  his 
bow  across  the  eager  strings,  whose  weird  notes  resemble  the 
mingled  melodies  of  wild  geese  and  yelping  hounds ;  and  then, 
throwing  himself  back,  he  darts  like  forked  lightning  into  an 
old-time  tune  called  "Shake  That  Little  Foot,  Sally  Ann :" 

'"Oh,  where  are  you  going,  Sally  Ann? 
I'm  going  to  the  weddin'  fast  as  I  can. 
Shake  that  little  foot,  Sally  Ann." 

Seeing  the  swinging  of  his  bow  with  his  body  to  and  fro, 
keeping  "time,  time,  time,  in  a  sort  of  runic  rhyme,"  with  the 
clatter  of  dwindling  shoe  soles  on  the  floor.     How  gleeful,  and 


120  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

how  glad!  How  thoughtless  and  free!  It  is  the  overflow  of 
soul,  a  cloudburst  of  fun,  a  thunderstorm  of  merriment;  it  is 
rural  society  on  a  tear ;  Mary's  little  lambs  are  at  play. 

If  youth  were  the  only  period  of  mortal  life,  human  exist- 
ence would  be  a  perpetual  laugh  and  an  endless  song.  This 
giddy  planet  is  its  whirling  symbol,  with  black-haired  Night 
and  beautiful  Day  forever  swinging  corners  and  waltzing 
among  the  stars.  But  there'll  come  a  time,  young  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  when  you  will  waltz  to  other  music  and  dance  to 
other  tunes;  there'll  come  a  time  when  the  lambs  will  cease 
to  play,  and  the  blood  of  the  violets  and  lilies  will  be  con- 
verted into  the  corn  juice  and  hard  cider  of  cold  reality;  there'll 
come  a  time  when  you  will  be  compelled  to  swing  corners  with 
the  broom  handle  or  the  hoe,  with  the  cares  of  the  kitchen  or 
the  duties  of  the  office,  and  there  will  be  plenty  of  vinegar  mixed 
with  your  sugar  and  honey.  All  your  ideals  of  life  will  change, 
and  other  dreams  will  fill  your  anxious  hearts.  They  may 
be  no  higher  than  the  tramp's  dream  of  butter  on  his  bread, 
or  they  may  be  the  dreams  of  a  IN'apoleon  who  will  some  day 
make  nations  shudder  and  the  frontiers  of  kingdoms  oscillate 
on  the  map.  But  whatever  they  may  be,  your  bread  will  many  a 
time  fall  buttered  side  down,  and  many  a  time  your  plans  will 
meet  with  their  Waterloo. 

Whether  it  be  youth  ever  tipsy  with  pleasure,  or  manhood 
intoxicated  with  the  spirit  of  ambition,  or  old  age  tottering 
around  in  the  stupor  of  memory,  all  are  drunk  with  folly  and 
doomed  to  disappointments  innumerable. 

A  lawyer  said  to  his  client:  "There  is  only  one  way  out 
of  your  trouble.  You  must  play  insane ;  and  when  a  question 
is  asked  you  in  court,  you  must  make  this  sign  and  whistle. 
[Whistle.]  A  plea  of  insanity  was  promptly  entered,  and  the 
trial  proceeded,  and  at  length  the  prisoner  was  put  on  the  wit- 
ness stand.  "What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  the  lawyer.  [Whis- 
tle.] "Are  you  the  defendant  in  this  case  ?"  [Whistle.]  The 
court  rapped  on  the  bench  and  said:  "You  must  answer  the 
question,  sir."  [Whistle.]  The  physicians  pronounced  the 
prisoner  insane,  and  a  verdict  was  rendered  accordingly.  The 
lawyer  took  his  client  to  his  office,  and  they  had  a  triumphant 
laugh  together  over  the  victory.     "JSTow,"  said  the  lawyer,  "I 


LOVE,    LAUGHTER   AND    SONG  121 

have  acquitted  you,  and  I  want  my  fee;  it  is  only  twenty-five 
dollars."  His  client  stood  and  looked  at  him  a  moment  and 
made  only  one  reply:  [Whistle.]  And  victory  was  swallowed 
up  in  wrath.  The  lawyer  paid  dear  for  his  whistle,  and  his 
bread  fell  buttered  side  down. 

An  overbearing  lawyer  once  shouted  to  an  old  lady  whom  he 
was  examining  on  the  witness  stand:  "Madam,  please  confine 
yourself  to  the  facts!"  The  old  lady  turned  around  to  him  and 
said:     "Well,  sir,  you  are  no  gentleman;  that's  a  fact." 

An  old  darky  walked  into  his  office  one  morning  and  said: 
"Boss,  I's  a-gwyne  to  have  a  lawsuit  wid  Jones  about  a  cow,  an' 
I  wants  to  state  de  facts  jist  as  dey  is,  an'  den  I  wants  to  know 
whedder  you  can  gain  de  case  an'  what  you  is  a-gwyne  to  charge 
fer  de  fee."  "All  right,  Rastus,"  said  the  lawyer;  "I  will  be 
honest  with  you;  state  your  case."  It  took  Rastus  an  hour  to 
detail  the  facts  in  the  controversy,  and  the  lawyer  put  his 
thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  vest  and  said:  "Rastus,  if  I 
don't  gain  that  case  I  will  never  go  into  the  courthouse  again, 
and  I  will  only  charge  you  ten  dollars."  Uncle  Rastus  began 
to  wall  his  eyes  and  back  out  of  the  office.  "  'Sense  me,  boss," 
he  said ;  "but  you  can't  win  no  case  for  me  sho'."  "How  dare 
you,  then,  come  into  my  office  and  consume  my  time  in  this 
manner  ?"  stormed  the  angry  lawyer.  "Well,  boss,"  said  Uncle 
Rastus,  "it's  dis  way:  I  tol'  you  Jones'  side  uv  de  case  to  git 
de  troof."  And  there  were  books  and  bottles  whizzing  in  the  air, 
and  Uncle  Rastus  had  business  on  the  horizon. 

And  so  it  is  with  every  profession  and  vocation  in  life.  Man 
is  "of  few  days,  and  full  of  trouble." 

An  old  doctor  examined  his  patient  one  afternoon  and  coldly 
said  to  him :  "You  are  dying,  sir.  Have  you  any  wish  to  ex- 
press before  you  pass  over  the  river  ?"  "Yes,"  said  the  patient, 
feebly;  "I  wish  I  had  employed  another  doctor." 

The  world  loves  us  if  we  succeed ;  it  despises  us  if  we  fail. 
It  piles  ice  around  its  benefactors,  and  gives  the  meed  of  praise 
to  genius  only  when  genius  is  in  the  grave.  But  what  do  words 
of  praise  avail  to  lift  the  shadows  from  a  path  no  longer  pressed 
by  weary  feet?  Why  fill  the  hands  of  the  dead  with  flowers 
which  vou  have  withheld  from  the  living?  Who  would  not 
rather  have  one  smile,  one  tender  word  today,  than  to  know 

(8) 


122  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.   TAYLOR 

that  a  million  roses  M'ould  be  heaped  upon  his  coffin  ?  Who 
would  not  rather  live  and  dream  among  the  flowers  of  love  than 
to  sleep  the  dreamless  sleep  beneath  a  "wilderness  of  flowers"  ? 

Then  whv  not  let  the  Gulf  Stream  of  love  flow  on  ?  For  its 
warm  current  breathes  upon  the  icy  shores  of  mortal  life  and 
makes  them  blossom  with  laughter  and  song.  Love  is  the  soul 
of  the  beautiful,  the  true  and  the  good;  it  is  all  there  is  of 
happiness. 

But  "the  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth."  Listen 
to  my  tale  of  woe.  An  absent-minded  old  bachelor  once  fell  in 
love  with  a  beautiful  girl  and  instantly  prepared  for  battle  with 
the  flounced  and  powdered  enemy.  At  first  his  plans  worked 
well,  and  he  was  about  to  win  a  great  victory  over  all  the  swells 
in  town;  but  an  accident  happened  which  changed  his  destiny 
and  wrecked  his  hopes  of  conquest  and  happiness.  The  church 
bell  rang  one  bright  Sabbath  morning,  and  he  knew  that  his  idol 
would  be  there,  and  he  diked  himself  in  faultless  style  and 
curled  his  sorrel  moustache  till  it  looked  like  the  tail  of  a  pug. 
The  excitement  of  the  occasion  made  him  more  absent-minded 
than  ever,  and  he  waited  until  the  worshipers  had  assembled 
and  then  walked  down  the  aisle  in  triumph,  the  observed  of  all 
observers,  with  his  overcoat  hanging  on  his  arm;  but  the  maiden 
looked  at  his  overcoat  and  blushed,  the  preacher  looked  at  it  and 
smiled,  and  the  congregation  looked  at  it  and  broke  into  laugh- 
ter; and  the  old  bachelor  looked  down,  and  it  was  his  every- 
day pantaloons.  His  hope  exploded  like  a  bubble  in  the  air, 
and  he  dropped  the  garment  and  flew. 


SENTIMENT 


SENTIMENT 

As  unto  the  world   the   light  is,   so   unto   the  soul   is  sentiment. 

Light  is  the  angel  of  the  beautiful.  It  unveils  the  universe 
and  reveals  to  mortal  eyes  its  glory.  Its  flight  is  in  every 
firmament,  its  pulse  beat  is  in  the  trembling  stars.  It  dips  its 
wings  in  the  ocean  and  sprinkles  the  earth  with  dew  and  rain. 
It  bursts  through  the  rifted  storm  and  kisses  the  falling  rain- 
drops and  its  colors  lie  in  a  band  of  glory  on  the  bosom  of  the 
cloud.  It  weaves  the  shining  texture  of  blade  and  leaf  and 
adorns  the  fields  and  builds  the  solemn  temples  of  the  forest. 
It  finds  a  mirror  of  enchantment  in  every  glassy  streamlet,  and 
we  look  down  on  fantastic  visions  of  phantom  rocks  and  ferns 
and  wild  flowers  and  trees  and  floating  clouds.  The  sky  is  its 
palette,  the  world  is  its  canvas.  Its  touch  is  the  touch  of 
divinity.  It  paints  its  miracles  of  colors  in  land  and  sea  and 
hangs  in  the  distant  air  the  gossamer  veil  of  dreamy  haze  that 
softens  the  landscape  and  wraps  the  rugged  mountains. 

Sentiment  is  the  ministering  angel  of  life.  Its  warmth  and 
light  are  in  every  thought,  its  wings  flutter  in  every  dream.  It 
sheds  its  sweet  influences  on  every  pathway  and  smoothes  and 
softens  every  pillow.  It  hangs  a  bow  in  every  cloud  and  sets  a 
star  on  every  horizon.  Its  morning  is  a  smile ;  its  noon  is  a  joy ; 
its  evening  a  tear.  It  sweeps  the  harpstrings  of  human  hearts 
and  they  thrill  with  every  human  passion.  It  steals  a  poem 
from  a  rose,  a  song  from  a  bird,  a  melody  from  a  brook.  It 
gathers  a  whisper  from  the  winds,  a  sigh  from  the  sea,  a  prayer 
from  the  stars.  It  catches  music  from  the  lips  of  the  morning 
and  sombre  beauty  from  the  jewelled  night.  It  touches  all  the 
tender  chords  of  feeling  and  exalts  the  soul  to  higher  planes  of 
liappiness.  It  flows  like  a  flood  of  light  through  the  poetry  of 
Milton,  and  we  tread  upon  the  violets  of  Eden — the  Adams  and 
Eves  of  love's  first  morning. 

It  built  the  ideals  and  shaped  the  dreams  of  Shakespeare 
and  made  his  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  the  oracle  of  love  in  whose 
divine  presence  all  the  world  are  lovers.     It  touched  the  harp 


126  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

of  Burns  and  warmed  his  genius  into  the  floAver  of  song  whose 
fragrance  will  linger  forever  on  the  honnie  banks  and  braes  of 
Ayr.  It  is  the  mirrow  of  the  beautiful  in  the  stream  of  life 
reflecting  all  the  shores  and  all  the  heavens  of  thought. 

I  stood  before  a  great  painting  and  was  awed  and  charmed 
by  the  glory  of  the  master's  art.  He  touched  the  canvas  with 
his  pencil,  and  lo!  Paradise  sprang  from  the  dust  of  long  ago 
and  lived  again. 

I  saw  the  wondrous  work  of  the  sculptor's  chisel.  He 
dreamed  and  modeled  and  dreamed  again  till  his  breathing 
dream  of  beauty  stepped  forth  from  the  cold,  dull  marble. 

I  saw  the  wizard  of  the  bow  turn  his  violin  into  a  thing  of 
passion.  It  laughed  and  wept  and  sang;  it  hoped  and  de- 
spaired and  sobbed  like  a  child ;  it  pleaded  like  a  lover  and  sighed 
like  a  maiden.  It  echoed  from  the  battle  field  of  love  the  drum- 
beat of  fluttering  hearts,  the  clash  of  tender  arms  and  the  sweet 
musketry  of  kisses,  and  then  fainted  away  into  whispers  like 
the  summer  evening's  last  sigh  that  shut  the  rose. 

I  saw  Blaine  play  on.  the  passions  of  men  as  the  child  plays 
with  its  toys,  and  Lamar  thrill  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen 
with  his  imagery  and  his  eloquence.  They  were  the  plumed 
knights  of  opposing  sentiments  and  won  the  plaudits  of  the 
world  with  their  magnetism  and  their  power. 

I  saw  an  actor  charm  thousands  with  his  inspirations  and  his 
songs.  His  actions  were  the  perfection  of  grace,  and  his  voice 
was  music.  He  portrayed  the  sunny  side  of  life  and  floated  like 
a  dream  in  the  "Shadow  Dance."    It  was  a  burst  of  sentiment. 

I  heard  the  divine  Patti  sing.  In  every  note  there  was  the 
rapture  of  love  and  the  pathos  of  tears ;  in  every  trill  there  was 
a  warbling  bird,  and  in  every  swell  the  dim  shadow  tones  of  an 
invisible  harp.  I  drifted  on  the  silver  tide  of  her  song.  It 
ebbed  and  flowed  and  broke  into  spray  on  the  shining  rocks  and 
dashed  its  surfs  on  golden  sands.  I  was  tossed  to  and  fro  on 
every  passion  known  and  felt  on  earth  and  in  heaven !  And  I 
said,  what  would  thi-^  life  be  worth  to  us  bereft  of  sentiment? 
Banish  it  from  the  world  and  you  might  as  well  banish  the 
light,  for  the  world  Avould  be  a  desert.  The  sweetest  note  would 
lose  its  melody,  the  fairest  flower  its  language,  and  all  nature 
would  be  as  dead  to  music  as  the  tongueless  grave. 


SENTIMENT  127 

Sentiment  holds  the  key  that  unlocks  the  gates  of  every  para- 
dise and  opens  the  door  of  every  heaven. 

I  saw  June  unbar  a  gate  of  roses  and  the  sweet-scented 
morning  came  forth  from  the  pavilion  of  enamored  night,  bear- 
ing in  her  girdle  of  light  the  keys  to  a  thousand  heavens.  I 
saw  her  kindle  a  sun  in  every  dewdrop  and  wake  the  dreamy 
hills  into  laughter  and  song.  T  caught  the  odor  of  honey- 
suckles and  the  note  of  a  lark  as  it  rose  exultant  from  the 
meadow,  I  saw  the  glimmer  of  painted  wings  and  heard  the 
Iium  of  teeming  bees  rich  with  the  spoils  of  plundered  beauty. 
I  heard  the  red  bird  sound  his  lute  and  the  thrush  trill  his 
madrigals  of  love  in  a  tangled  tree  top.  I  heard  the  oriole  ring 
his  silver  bells  in  the  dusky  chambers  of  the  forest.  I  saw  the 
green  trail  of  a  winding  river  and  heard  the  low  murmur  of  its 
joyous  waters  dashing  among  the  rocks  of  distant  rapids.  I 
heard  the  gleeful  shouts  and  splashes  of  noisy  boys  at  the  swim- 
ming hole  under  the  spreading  elms.  An  old-time  darkey  went 
hobbling  by  with  his  cup  of  bait  and  his  fishing  pole.  The  wine 
of  June  got  tangled  in  his  veins,  and  he  tangled  his  song  with 
the  honey  song  of  the  bees — 

"Oh,  my  Hannah  lady, 

I  do  ah  love  ah  you ; 
Dey  ain't  no  baby  ; 

So  good  and  ah  true. 
In  Louisiana  I  could  die 
If  you  was  only  nigh. 
Tell  me,  Hannah  lady, 

Whose  black   baby  is   ah  you." 

And  he  cut  the  pigeon  wing  in  the  clover  and  then  sat  down 
on  a  bumble  bee.  It  invited  him  to  rise,  and  he  rose.  And  it 
was  difficult  for  him  to  tell  which  was  the  warmer,  the  June 
in  his  heart  or  the  June  in  the  bumble  bee. 

I  saw  a  love-sick  lad  meet  his  sweetheart  down  in  the  shady 
lane  and  take  her  girlish  hand  in  his  and  kiss  her  under  the 
locust  bloom.  A  jaybird  sat  on  a  swinging  limb  and  he  winked 
at  me  and  I  winked  at  him.  It  carried  me  back  thirty  Junes 
to  the  happy  days  when  I  was  the  Komeo  of  many  a  shady  lane. 
Then  I  saw  a  sturdy  farmer  leave  his  happy  wife  at  the  gate, 
and  as  he  went  to  the  field  I  heard  him  sing  back  to  her  a  swept 
]ove  son^ — : 


128  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

"Oh,  when  the  silver  threads  replace  the  gold, 
I'll  love  you,  darling,  as  of  old, 
And  kiss  the  cheek  where  bloomed  the  rose 
Ere  life  had  crept  so  near  its  close." 

The  snows  that  never  melt  may  fall  on  loving  heads,  but 
there's  no  snow  on  loving  hearts,  'tis  always  summer  there. 

Under  an  arbor  of  morning-glories  by  a  little  cottage  on  the 
hill  sat  an  old  man  with  his  bride  of  fifty  years.  He  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  smoothed  her  wrinkled  brow,  and  as  they 
looked  with  dim  eyes  upon  the  shadowy  vale  below  she  sang 
to  him  with  faltering  voice : 

"We'll  sleep  together  at  the  foot,  John  Anderson,  my  Jo !" 

O,  beautiful  dream-maker,  voluptuous  June,  enchantress  of 
the  sun,  Eden-builder  of  the  world!  There  is  a  magic  in  thy 
touch  which  melts  the  icicles  in  the  veins  of  age  and  makes  the 
tropic  blood  of  youth  run  roses. 

I  drifted  into  town  in  the  gathering  twilight  of  evening  just 
in  time  to  witness  the  overflow  of  sentiment  in  the  closing  hours 
of  the  high  school. 

The  streets  were  bustling  with  merry  crowds,  and  I  heard 
the  laughter  of  children  and  the  music  of  a  band.  I  heard  the 
chiming  of  bells,  and  a  throng  of  happy  schoolgirls  sang  their 
college  song  on  the  campus — 

"Oh,  listen  to  the  bells 

How  merrily  they  ring! 
They're  chiming  sweet  farewells 

While  joyfully  we  sing 
Tra-la-la ! 
Oh,  listen   to  the  bells. 
Oh,  hear  the  college  yells. 
Hip,    hip,    hurrah — rah,    rah  ! 
Three  cheers  for  ma  and  pa — 
Oh,  listen  to  the  music  of  the  bells." 

And  when  the  audience  had  assembled  I  looked  upon  a  vast 
sea  of  smiling  faces  and  sparkling  jewels.  There  were  bald 
heads,  reverend  and  rosy,  upon  whose  polished  domes  no  fly 
could  light  watliout  imperiling  his  neck,  and  no  mosquito  could 
look  without  a  watering  proboscis.  There  were  doting  mothers 
and  fond  aunts  armed  with  smelling  bottles  and  ready  to  weep 


SENTIMEiNT  I29 

or  faint  as  the  occasion  might  require.  There  were  old  fathers 
with  gold-headed  canes  and  whiskers  glossy  and  gray.  There 
was  the  solemn  array  of  spectacled  professors,  male  and  female, 
austere  and  terrible  as  a  galaxy  of  the  gods.  Then  I  saw  a 
legion  of  white  slippered  fairies  flushed  with  excitement,  but 
lithe  and  beautiful  as  the  poet's  dream,  and  the  air  palpitated 
with  painted  fans  and  heaving  bosoms.  The  grave  old  Presi- 
dent ascended  his  throne,  and  there  was  silence.  The  plump- 
armed  music  teacher  took  her  seat  at  the  grand  piano.  There 
was  a  burst  of  alleged  music,  and  the  light  of  sentiment  began 
to  shine.  There  were  essays  and  recitations  mingled  with  solos, 
duets,  quartetts  and  choruses  galore.  Did  you  never  hear  a 
frightened  schoolgirl  read  her  composition?  If  you  have  not, 
you  have  never  quafl'ed  at  the  fount  of  sentiment.  The  old  presi- 
dent announced  "Miss  Felicia  Rosebud,"  subject,  "Flowers." 
And  there  floated  out  before  the  footlights  a  little  blue-sashed 
cloud  of  white  organdy  with  a  fluttering  heart  in  it.  Her  timid 
eyes  were  the  envy  of  the  stars,  and  her  lips  would  have  tempted 
the  bees  to  jilt  the  jealous  poppies.  She  held  up  her  trembling 
manuscript  and  thus  gasped  out  her  little  bouquet  of  flowers : 

"When  this  beautiful  world  of  ours  had  rolled  out  from  the 
dark  and  warring  elements  of  chaos,  a  white-winged  angel  floated 
down  from  the  purple  hills  of  heaven  and  scattered  the  fragrant 
flowers.  And  when  our  first  parents  fell  from  their  high  estate 
the  sad,  sighing  winds  gathered  up  the  tiny  seeds  and  wafted 
them  beyond  the  barred  portal  of  Paradise  lost,  to  spring  up  and 
bloom  again  to  cheer  our  hearts  and  gladden  our  eyes  with  their 
fragTance  and  beauty  and  to  pout  their  sweet  lips  to  be  kissed 
by  the  first  golden  rays  of  the  morning  sun.  What  is  more 
beautiful  than  the  modest  little  violets  opening  their  glad  blue 
eyes  to  greet  the  spring  and  the  dew-besprinkled  morning- 
glories  pointing  their  purplo  bugles  toward  the  sky  as  if  to 
sound  a  reveille  to  slumbering  summer?  How  lovely  is  the 
stately  rose,  and  how  bright  and  heavenly  are  the  daisies  with 
their  snowy  petals  and  hearts  of  gold.  How  charming  are  the 
lilies  of  the  valley.  There  is  nothing  more  delightful  than  to 
stroll  through  the  meadow  and  down  by  the  little  babbling  brook 
where  the  bluebells  and  buttercups  reflect  their  images  in  the 
clear  running  water  and  where  the  birds  make  music  in  many  a 


130  LECTURES   OF   ROl'.ERT    L.    TAYLOR 

shady  bower.  Then  let  us  cherish  the  flowers,  the  beautiful 
flowers,  for  they  are  the  emblems  of  purity  and  innocence. 
They  speak  to  us  the  langTiage  of  love  and  happiness.  And 
now,  dear  schoolmates,  the  flowers  of  June  have  come  to  tell  us 
that  we  must  part. 

"The  saddest  word  ever  spoken  is  farewell.  That  word  is 
trembling  on  our  lips  tonight.  But  mingling  with  our  tears  as 
we  leave  these  classic  halls  is  the  sweet  consolation  that  the 
white-winged  angel  of  memory  will  attend  us  through  the  com- 
ing years  and  keep  ever  fresh  and  green  in  our  hearts  the  happy 
associations  of  our  schoolgirl  days.     Farewell,  farewell!" 

The  climax  of  the  brilliant  program  was  the  annual 
address  to  the  graduating  class,  delivered  by  the  Hon.  T.  Jeffer- 
son Shadd,  on  "The  SAveets  of  Life."  Col.  Shadd  had  gathered 
some  of  his  sweets  and  many  of  his  bitters  in  the  realm  of 
politics.  He  had  been  defeated  in  every  race  for  thirty  years, 
and  his  only  badge  of  honor  was  a  dislocated  hip  contributed 
by  a  brickbat  in  a  political  row.  But  since  his  retirement, 
which  dated  from  the  last  election,  he  had  devoted  much  time 
to  meditation  and  literary  research  w^ith  the  view  of  entering 
the  lecture  field.  And  he  seized  the  present  opportunity  to 
plume  his  oratorical  pinions  for  future  use.  The  old  president 
introduced  him  and  he  limped  forward  and  began  to  soar : 

"Young  Ladies,  Sweet  Ladies  of  the  Female  High  School :  I 
speak  but  the  truth  when  I  say  that  this  is  the  proudest  hour  of 
my  life.  Of  all  the  honors  showered  upon  me  in  my  long  and 
eventful  career  this  is  the  richest  and  the  grandest.  Of  all  the 
high  privileges  I  have  ever  enjoyed  this  is  the  most  bewilderingly 
delightful !  I  deem  all  my  ambitions  satisfied  and  all  my  labors 
rewarded  in  the  rare  and  radiant  pleasure  of  this  glorious  occa- 
sion. This  is  an  honor  for  which  chivalry  would  have  broken 
lances  in  the  perilous  tournaments  of  the  past.  The  victorious 
knight  crowned  one  queen,  but  I  cro^vn  twenty  queens  of  love 
and  beauty  in  this  august  presence  this  evening.  I  twine  the 
laurel  and  the  rose  for  twenty  beauteous  brows  and  bow  the 
knee  at  the  shrine  where  every  noble  knight  has  bowed.  Did  I 
call  you  sweet  ladies  ?  From  such  a  symposium  of  transcendent 
charms  and  adorable  graces  who  would  withhold  the  tender 
appellatioj}  ?    Breathes  there  a  man  pp  dead  to  love,  so  insensible 


SENTIMENT  I3I 

to  kniglitly  sentiment  as  to  withhold  from  woman  that  esteem 
which  confesses  her  to  be  the  sum  and  substance  of  all  life's 
sweets!  If  all  the  flowers  that  ever  bloomed  in  Paradise  and 
that  have  glorified  the  circling  centuries  ever  since  should  pour 
their  mellifluous  sweets  upon  man  deprived  of  woman,  his  life 
would  still  be  sour,  absolutely  sour!  And  if  all  the  roses  of 
earth  should  fade  and  wither  today,  man  would  not  feel 
the  loss  while  woman  survived!  Young  ladies,  I  congratulate 
you  on  this  occasion.  You  have  spread  a  feast  of  intellectual 
sweets  that  would  have  maddened  the  ancient  gods  with  envy. 
You  have  touched  the  golden  lyre  with  a  deftness  and  brilliancy 
undreamed  of  by  the  muses !  You  have  ended  your  joyous  days 
of  chrysalis  and  caterpillar  in  these  classic  halls,  you  have  eaten 
the  honeyed  leaves  from  the  tree  of  knowledge  and  left  it  bare ! 
And  vou  are  now  about  to  go  forth  as  radiant  butterflies  into 
the  glorious  June  of  life!  A  thousand  gardens  of  happiness 
flaunt  their  nectared  flowers  and  invite  you  to  come !  Go,  young 
ladies,  go !  And  may  you  live  to  taste  the  sweets  of  fifty  Junes 
to  come!" 

He  took  his  seat  amid  tears  of  delight  and  storms  of  applause, 
and  the  band  played  "Little  Annie  Rooney." 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  what  would  life  be  worth  to  us  bereft 
of  sentiment !  Who  would  blow  out  the  light  of  love  or  quench 
the  music  and  the  dream  of  hope  and  memory?  Who  would 
strip  youth  of  its  romance  or  steal  from  age  its  reminiscences  ? 
My  old  grizzly  friend,  what  would  you  take  for  the  fond  recol- 
lections of  your  boyhood  ?  When  you  first  entered  the  arena  of 
intellectual  combat  within  the  sacred  halls  of  the  debating 
society  to  which  I  belonged,  compelling  each  debater  to  occupy 
the  floor  for  not  less  than  three  full  minutes  under  penalty  of 
fine  and  everlasting  disgrace.  A  popular  question  for  discussion 
was  this :  "Resolved,  That  the  dog  is  more  useful  to  man  than 
the  gun."  The  name  of  the  leader  on  the  affirmative  was  called, 
and  thus  he  shook  the  earth  with  his  arguments : 

"Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen  of  the  Society:  The  ques- 
tion for  discussion  tonight  is,  Svhich  is  the  most  useful  to  man, 
the  dog  or  the  gim  V  I'm  on  the  affirmative.  I  say  the  dog  is 
the  most  useful.  (How  much  time  vi  got?)  It  stands  to  reason 
that  the  dog  is  the  most  useful.    'Now,  Mr,  President,  suppos'n 


132  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

you  go  a  himtin'  an'  you  jump  a  rabbit  an'  you  pull  down  on 
him  an'  your  old  gun  busts  and  kills  you  instead  of  the  rabbit  1 
Does  a  dog  ever  bust?  (How  much  time  vi  got?)  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, the  gun's  a  dangerous  thing.  It's  like  the  old  woman 
said — it's  dangerous  without  lock,  stock  or  barrel,  for  her  hus- 
band whipped  her  with  the  ram-rod.  (How  much  time  vi  got?) 
Mr.  President,  suppos'n  a  burglar  is  breakin'  into  your  house. 
Don't  you  have  to  load  your  old  g-un  ?  Mr.  President,  the  dog's 
always  loaded.  (How  much  time  vi  got?)  Therefore,  Mr. 
President,  the  dog  is  the  most  useful.  I  leave  the  question  with 
vou." 

Then  the  champion  of  the  negative  was  called  upon  the  floor. 
Thus  he  unlimbered  his  battery: 

"Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen:  I  am  on  the  negative  side 
of  this  question.  It's  a  serious  question.  I  say  the  gun  is  the 
most  useful.  An'  why  do  I  say  the  gun  is  the  most  useful? 
(Plow  much  time  vi  got?)  Suppos'n,  Mr.  President,  you  go 
into  the  woods  and  want  to  kill  a  squirrel  on  the  top  of  an  oak 
or  hickory?  Can  a  dog  climb  a  tree?  'No,  sir,  you  have  to 
shoot  him  out  with  your  gun.  (How  much  time  vi  got?)  Mr. 
President,  suppos'n  a  man  Avants  to  steal  everything  you've  got  ? 
Won't  he  pizen  your  dog?  But,  Mr.  President,  he  can't  pizen 
your  gTin.  (H'ow  much  time  vi  got  ?)  Of  course,  the  gim  is 
the  most  useful.  What  are  you  goin'  to  do  if  there  comes  a  war  ? 
Are  you  goin'  to  turn  into  a  dog  to  fight?  Mr.  President,  I 
thank  you  for  your  kind  attention." 

The  judges  decided  that  the  arguments  were  evenly  balanced 
and  that  it  was  a  "dog  fall." 

The  watery  jointed  boy  in  the  debating  society  lacks  confi- 
dence in  his  wings.  But  wait  until  he  becomes  a  Sophomore  in 
the  university — then  watch  the  eagle  soar.  I  saw  a  Soph,  circle 
upward  above  the  most  distant  stars  and  sail  far  out  in  space 
beyond  the  ratiocination  of  man,  on  the  "The  Ruins  of  Time." 
I  can  only  give  you  a  feather  out  of  his  wing. 

"The  ruins  of  time,  the  ruins  of  time !  They  are  vast  as  the 
creation  and  old  as  the  stars !  Time,  the  venerable  of  the  ages, 
the  hoary  monarch  of  the  scythe  and  hour  glass,  is  slowly  but 
surely  digging  the  grave  of  the  universe.  His  tremendous 
forces  of  destruction  are  silently  working  changes  in  the  physics 


SENTIMENT  133 

of  the  spheres  that  point  to  universal  death.  Aye,  the  very 
phmetary  spaces  are  filled  with  the  dust  of  disintegrating  worlds ! 
Star  after  star  has  forever  disappeared  from  the  glittering  stage 
of  the  heavens  within  the  memory  of  ephemeral  man.  The 
mighty  suns,  those  magnificent  archangels  of  light  that 
illuminate  the  deep  profounds  of  the  illimitable  are  slowly 
dying,  dying,  dying.  The  fiery  hearts  of  their  children,  the 
planetary  orbs,  are  slowdy  cooling,  cooling,  cooling  into  the  chill 
of  inexorable  death!  The  period  must  come  in  the  history  of 
the  universe  when  its  immeasurable  spaces  now  so  glorious  and 
so  tranquil  with  light  and  law  and  cosmic  order  shall  feel  the 
shock  of  an  awful  cataclysm  in  the  wreck  of  matter  and  the 
crush  of  worlds.  Time  marks  a  limit  in  the  life  of  matter,  and 
God  has  written  limit  on  the  wrinkled  brow  of  Time,  whose 
tottering  footstep  must  end  in  a  grave  on  the  silent  shore  of  the 
eternities."  And  when  he  got  through  there  wasn't  a  hair  on 
my  head. 

But  alas!  how  fade  the  colors  of  the  rising  morn.  How 
gray  and  sombre  grow  the  shadow^s  under  the  passing  clouds  of 
noon.  How  soon  we  drift  away  from  the  florid  young  orator 
and  the  budding  essayist  into  the  broA\ai  and  sober  hues  of  the 
man  and  the  woman.  Their  stilted  efl[usions  and  flamboyant 
oratory  are  often  the  outcroppings  of  genius.  The  sentimental 
schoolgirl  of  the  commencement  who  bubbles  over  about  the 
flow^ers  may  some  day  bring  society  prostrate  at  her  feet  by  her 
goodness  of  heart  and  beautiful  character.  The  downy  lipped 
Soph,  who  encompasses  the  universe  in  his  oratorical  flights 
may  yet  hold  in  his  grasp  the  affairs  and  destiny  of  a  nation. 
As  the  gate  of  youth  closes  behind  us  and  its  music  dies  away, 
other  gates  open  just  ahead  and  we  hear  the  din  of  real  life 
and  see  the  world  in  another  light.  Our  thoughts  unfold  into 
the  full  leaf  of  midsummer,  and  our  loves  and  hopes  and  ambi- 
tions are  in  full  bloom.  Sentiment  is  to  the  soul  what  light  is 
to  nature.  Light  passes  through  a  prism,  and,  lo!  its  seven 
colors  stand  forth  like  seven  angels — the  alphabet  of  the  beau- 
tiful. So  sentiment  passes  through  the  prism  of  the  heart  and 
reveals  all  its  colors  in  human  character,  l^atural  objects  tear 
asunder  and  reflect  certain  rays  of  light  and  absorb  all  the  rest. 
The  result  is  color.    The  leaf  reflects  the  green  ray  and  absorbs 


134  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

the  other  six — the  leaf  is  therefore  green.  One  flower  absorbs 
the  rays  except  the  red;  another  absorbs  all  but  the  yellow. 
They  are,  therefore,  red  or  yellow  according  to  the  rays  they 
reflect.  The  infinite  combinations  of  the  reflected  rays  give 
every  hue  and  tint  and  shade  of  color  which  we  see  in  field  and 
forest  every  day.  And  so  in  every  imagination  there  is  an  ideal, 
in  every  heart  a  dream  of  happiness — a  dominating  sentiment 
which  is  reflected  in  the  words  and  actions  of  every-day  life. 
Sometimes  the  sentiment  is  reflected  in  the  stomach,  and  the 
goal  of  happiness  is  in  a  banquet. 

To  the  man  who  lives  to  eat  the  science  of  gastronomy  is  a  ro- 
mance and  the  bill  of  fare  a  poem.  The  chimes  of  the  dinner  bell 
are  more  melodious  than  the  music  of  Mendelssohn.  The  gilded 
dining  hall,  with  its  silver  plate  and  immaculate  linen,  is  a  vision 
of  heaven,  and  the  incense  of  the  cuisine  is  sweeter  than  a  breath 
of  June.  As  the  war  horse  sniffs  the  battle  from  afar,  and  the 
wild  boar  whets  his  tusks  for  the  combat,  so  the  fat  man  sniffs 
and  whets  for  the  festive  board.  The  horizon  of  his  dream  is 
full  of  "canvas  backs"  and  "blue-wings ;"  its  waters  swarm  with 
pompanos  and  terrapin,  and  its  landscape  is  blatant  with  fat 
and  juicy  flocks.  His  countenance  is  a  sunrise  of  sentiment,  and 
his  laughter  is  like  the  twinkling  bubbles  of  a  pot  of  mutton. 

O,  ladies,  cherish  him  and  nourish  him,  and  thus  perpetuate 
his  heavenly  temper !  As  the  farmer  f atteneth  the  lamb  for  the 
feast,  so  fatten  ye  your  husbands  that  their  souls  may  be  fit 
meat  for  the  Master's  use. 

But  there  is  a  paradise  of  liquid  sentiment  where  fragrant 
bottles  smile  and  luscious  demijohns  give  forth  delicious  odors. 
The  schoolgirl  gathers  her  inspiration  from  the  flowers,  the 
Sophomore  from  the  stars,  the  poet  from  the  fabled  muses ;  but 
the  Bacchanalian  dreamer  imbibes  his  happiness  from  the  Ely- 
.sian  spirits  that  glow  in  amber  juices  of  corn  and  rye.  He  is  a 
poet  without  verse,  for  his  sublimated  imagery  is  beyond  the 
grasp  of  language,  and  his  timorous  ideality  is  as  thin  as  the  tail 
of  a  comet  through  which  we  see  the  stars.  In  his  florid  imagina- 
tion he  soars  "  'mid  pleasures  and  palaces"  and  usually  steers 
clear  of  "home,  sweet  home."  In  his  rhapsodic  moments  of  ex- 
hilaration he  rises  from  poverty  to  wealth  and  from  weakness 
to  power.     He  could  buy  the  universe  and  carry  the  world  on 


SENTIMENT  135 

his  back.  The  reason  for  the  existence  of  such  a  character  is 
unfathomable,  unless  his  nose  is  intended  to  be  a  red  buoy  above 
the  sunken  rocks  and  shoals  of  life  to  warn  the  unwary  against 
sure  destruction. 

The  most  beautiful  example  of  this  wealth-producing  power 
of  old  rye  is  embodied  in  an  old  story  I  used  to  hear : 

A  one  "galloused"  fellow  from  Hard  Scramble  met  his 
friend  in  town  one  day  and  said:  '"Well,  they  say  you're  goin' 
back  to  Texas."  "Yes,  I'm  just  starting."  "Do  you  think 
you'll  see  my  brother  out  there  ?"  "O,  yes,  I'll  see  your  brother. 
I'm  goin'  to  his  town."  "T  wish  you'd  tell  him,  if  you  please, 
that  if  he  is  ever  goin'  to  help  me,  now  is  the  time.  I  haven't 
got  a  thing  in  the  world."  "All  right,"  said  his  friend.  "Let's 
go  in  and  take  a  drink." 

After  they  had  imbibed  together  a  few  times,  old  "one  gallus" 
said:  "If  you  see  my  brother,  tell  him  I'm  doin'  very  well — - 
I'm  makin'  money."  "All  right,"  said  his  friend.  "Come  in 
and  let's  take  another  drink."  Finally  they  separated,  and  when 
the  Texas  man  was  boarding  the  train  the  erstwhile  poor  man 
staggered  up  to  the  platform  and  shouted:  "Say,  if  you  see 
my  brother  out  there,  tell  him  if  he  needs  anything,  by  gosh,  to 
let  me  know." 

An  old  poet  of  the  flowing  bowl  came  down  the  village 
street  one  bright  afternoon  swearing  he  could  climb  a  thorn  tree 
a  hundred  feet  high  with  a  wildcat  under  each  arm  and  never 
get  a  scratch.  But  the  next  morning  he  appeared  with  a  band- 
age over  one  eye  and  a  blue  knot  on  his  nose  and  his  right  arm 
in  a  sling.  "Hello!"  shouted  one  of  his  pals,  "I  thought  you 
could  climb  a  thorn  tree  a  hundred  feet  high  and  never  get  a 
scratch  ?"  "Yes,"  he  said  in  a  subdued  tone,  "but  I  got  this 
comin'  down !" 

A  gentleman  went  home  one  night  "about  three  sheets  in  the 
wind"  and  said  to  his  patient  wife,  "I'm  not  feelin'  very  well 
this  evenin' — I  fear  I'm  not  goin'  to  live  long."  "Yes,  my 
dear,"  she  said,  "I  think  if  you  would  drink  less  whiskey  you 
would  lengthen  your  days."  "That's  so,  my  dear;  that's  so. 
I  tried  it  last  Sunday,  and  it  was  the  longest  day  I  ever  spent." 

A  belated  old  farmer  reached  home  one  cold,  frosty  night 
"as  drunk  as  a  lord"  and  concluded  he  would  crawl  in  bed  with 


136  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

the  children ;  but  he  made  a  mistake  and  crawled  into  the  kennel 
in  the  chimney  corner  outside  and  went  to  sleep  with  his  setter 
dog  and  her  litter  of  pups.  Toward  morning  he  was  half 
awakened  by  the  pups  crawling  over  him  and  scratching  his  face 
with  their  little  paws,  and  he  mumbled  out,  "Children,  for  the 
Lord's  sake,  quit  kickin'  the  kiver  off  your  father !" 

Thus,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  character  of  the  drunkard 
quenches  every  other  sentiment,  and,  like  his  nose,  reflects  only 
the  red.  lie  is  indigenous  to  every  soil.  He  blossoms  in  every 
clime.  He  is  the  ever-blooming  carnation  in  the  conservatory 
of  mankind.  We  cannot  conceal  our  true  colors.  They  shine 
in  all  we  say  and  in  everything  we  do. 

The  turfman  thinks  "horse,"  talks  "horse,"  and  laughs  the 
"horse  laugh."  A  horse  stands  hitched  in  his  thoughts  by  day, 
and  often  a  nightmare  gallops  through  his  dreams. 

Sentiment  moves  in  the  sweet  impulses  of  charity. 

Did  you  ever  enter  the  door  of  poverty  to  help  and  to  bless  ? 

There  was  a  heaven  in  the  basket  on  your  arm  and  in  that  coin 

you  slipped  into  the  fevered  hand  of  the  sufferer  on  the  pallet 

of  straw.     You  kindled  a  heaven  in  every  little  hungTy  heart 

huddled  around  the  dying  embers  on  the  hearth,  and  you  saw 

it  shine  through  dirt  and  rags  and  glow  in  the  tears  of  gratitude. 

That  was  pure  and  holy  sentiment !    Did  you  ever  see  want  and 

misery  shining  in  a  cold  and  cheerless  hovel  ?     The  white  wing 

of  mercy  was  in  the  flour  you  sent,  and  that  ton  of  coal  was  the 

stored  sunlight  of  sentiment.    Did  you  ever  carry  a  cup  of  pure, 

fresh  milk  to  the  squalid  cradle  of  a  famishing  child  and  put 

it  to  its  shrivelled  lips  ?    That  was  the  milk  of  human  kindness ! 

Did  you  ever  go  where  the  bloom  of  wealth  had  fallen  and 

false  and  fickle  friendship  had  fled  to  other  fields  and  flowers? 

There  was   a   sunburst  of  hope   in  the   check   and   cancelled 

mortgage  you  laid  on  the  table,  and  new  joy  blossomed  in  broken 

hearts  when  you  said:     "True  friendship  is  always  the  same 

in  the  sunshine  and  in  the  shadow,"    That  was  the  royal  purple 

of  sentiment.    One  bright  summer  morning  a  good  old-time  black 

mammy  stood  in  my  presence  as  Governor  of  Tennessee  and 

said:     "Governor,  I  wants  my  ole  man."     "Where  is  your  old 

man?"  I  asked.     "He's  out  yonder  in  de  penitentiary,  dat's 

whar  he  is,  sah."    "What  is  he  in  the  penitentiary  for  ?"    "Well, 


^tmr    -    -i 


$:• 


:  f. 


'■n , 


Great    Ash    Tree    on    Alt'    Taylor's    Farm.    Where    Hub    Rehear>ed 

Fiddle  and  the  Bow.'" 


The 


SENTIMENT  137 

boss,  I'se  gwine  to  tell  you  de  trufe.  We  had  our  gran'chillun 
livin'  wid  us,  an'  an'  times  wus  liard,  an'  we  got  out  of  meat, 
an'  de  chillun  was  hungry,  an'  de  ole  man  slipped  out  one  night, 
stole  two  middling  of  meat — yes,  sah,  dat's  what  dey  put  him 
dar  fur.  Dey  put  him  in  fur  free  years,  sah.  Yes,  sah,  dey  sho' 
did."  "How  long  has  he  been  in  ?"  I  asked.  "Jis  one  yeah,  boss, 
jis  one  yeah;  an'  he  ain't  no  count  in  dar  an'  he  ain't 
no  count  outside,  an'  I  can't  see  why  dey  wants  to  keep  him." 
"Well,"  I  said,  "if  he  isn't  any  account  inside  and  he  isn't  any 
account  outside,  what  do  vou  want  with  him?"  "What  does  T 
want  wid  him,  did  vou  ax  what  I  want's  wid  him  ?  We're  out 
o'  meat  agin,  dat's  what  I  wants  wid  him."  I  agreed  with  the 
old  soul  that  one  year  was  long  enough  for  two  "middlins"  of 
meat,  and  as  she  departed  with  a  pardon  in  her  hand  there  was 
music  in  her  voice  when  she  said :  "Boss,  ef  I  never  sees  you 
any  mo'  in  dis  world,  I  hopes  we'll  meet  up  yonder  whar  de 
meat  never  gives  out  and  whar  the  chilluns  never  gets  hongry." 
That  was  the  very  middling  meat  of  sentiment. 


(9) 


THE  OLD  PLANTATION 


THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

I  sat  on  a  balcony  in  a  great  city  by  the  sea.  I  looked  down 
on  the  bustling  streets  below  and  beheld  every  phase  of  char- 
acter and  every  grade  and  condition  of  life  mixing  and  mingling 
together  in  that  great  mart  of  modem  civilization.  I  saw  youth 
and  beauty  chasing  the  rainbows  and  butterflies  of  pleasure,  and 
old  age  shambling  along,  bent  under  the  crushing  weight  of 
years.  I  saw  exultant  hope  peer  over  the  shoulder  of  despair, 
and  radiant  joy  pass  and  touch  the  black  veil  of  sorrow.  I  saw 
the  anarchist  rub  against  the  money  king,  and  the  Quaker  jostle 
the  clown.  I  saw  the  Christian  brush  the  infidel,  and  the  Gentile 
elbow  the  Jew.  I  saw  eager  thrift  and  impatient  competition 
flit  by  like  wing-footed  Mercuries,  and  close  at  their  heels  sharp- 
faced  and  lynx-eyed  avarice  rushed  on  in  hot  pursuit  of  the 
gilded  god  of  Mammon.  I  saw  enterprise  seizing  opportunity 
by  the  forelock,  and  success  throwing  back  mock  kisses  at  the 
pouting  lips  of  disappointment.  I  saw  pride  and  vanity  flash 
their  jewels  and  flaunt  their  silken  skirts  in  the  tear-stained 
face  of  humility,  and  the  chariot  of  Dives  throw  contemptuous 
dust  from  its  glittering  wheels  on  the  tattered  garments  of 
Lazarus.  I  saw  ambition  battling  for  power,  greed  struggling 
for  wealth,  and  poverty  begging  for  bread. 

I  heard  the  rumbling  of  heavy  wheels  and  the  clatter  of 
countless  hoofs  on  the  stony  streets.  I  heard  the  footfalls  of 
the  moving  throngs,  and  the  murmur  of  multitudinous  voices 
like  the  eternal  roar  of  ocean  waves  breaking  on  rock-bound 
shores. 

There  was  a  little  green  park  close  by  where  art  and  nature 
mingled  in  the  beautiful  gifts  of  statue,  and  fountain,  and  leaf, 
and  tree,  and  flower,  and  it  was  touched  by  the  white  pavements 
of  a  broad  and  splendid  avenue.  There  I  saw  a  swarthy  min- 
strel from  the  classic  land  of  Italy  playing  on  his  street  piano, 
around  which  a  hundred  pale  and  fragile  children  tripped  and 
danced,  keeping  time  with  nimble  feet  to  melodies  stolen  from 
the  sunshine  of  Italian  skies.  A  little  farther  away  a  band  of 
troubadours  from  the  dreamy  hills  of  Castile  played  softer  airs 


142  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L,    TAYLOR 

on  softer  strings  of  lute  and  viol  and  sweet  guitar,  while  a  dark- 
ejed  senorita  sang  a  Spanish  serenade  and  then  received  the 
silver  dimes  in  her  tinkling  tambourine. 

I  saw  an  Irish  policeman,  radiant  with  red  hair  and  re- 
splendent in  his  brass  buttons  and  long-tailed  coat  of  blue, 
swinging  his  shining  billy  in  his  strong  right  hand,  proudly 
Avalking  his  beat  on  the  square  in  front  of  me,  and  he  seemed 
the  most  important  personage  in  all  that  motley  throng.  I  savr 
him  collar  a  tough,  and  club  a  pickpocket,  and  save  a  child  who 
fell  under  a  dray ;  I  saw  him  gallantly  make  way  for  the  ladies 
to  pass,  and  kindly  lead  a  feeble  old  man  over  the  crowded 
crossing.  I  saw  him  bow  to  all  the  sports  and  politicians  as 
they  passed. 

Then  the  martial  melodies  of  military  bands  came  floating 
on  the  sultry  air,  and  there  was  a  great  tumult,  for  do^vn  the 
avenue  I  saw  eager  crowds  gathering  everywhere  along  the  side- 
walks, filling  every  door  and  packing  in  every  window  to  wit- 
ness the  brilliant  parade  of  Tammany.  Louder  and  stronger 
the  tumult  rose  as  the  silent  and  solemn  old  chief  went  by  in  his 
slow-moving  carriage,  and  there  was  the  flaunting  of  flags  and 
flouting  of  handkerchiefs  and  a  storm  of  huzzahs  all  along  the 
line  as  ten  thousand  Tammany  Tigers  from  the  political  jungles 
of  New  York  kept  time  to  the  music  that  flowed  from  a  hundred 
silver  horns. 

I  saw  every  extreme  of  society  and  every  striking  contrast 
of  virtue  and  vice,  hope  and  fear,  joy  and  sorrow,  of  wealth  and 
rags,  of  glory  and  shame — I  saw  these  pass  like  phantoms  be- 
fore me. 

I  left  the  balcony  of  the  palace  and  loitered  along  the  teem- 
ing thoroughfares.  I  saw  opulence  lolling  in  elegant  ease  and 
feasting  and  drinking  in  luxurious  dining  halls  and  rich  cafes, 
while  ragged  children,  with  hungry  looks  and  watering  mouths, 
stood  without  and  gazed  through  the  broad  and  plated  windows. 
I  saw  gilded  saloons,  magnificent  with  crystal  and  silver  and 
gold,  and  hung  with  costly  paintings,  where  wine  flowed  like 
ruby  fountains,  and  liquors  old  and  mellow  enticed  and  tempted 
alike  the  prosperous  and  the  poor,  the  learned  and  the  unlearned, 
the  philosopher  and  the  fool,  the  youth  in  his  teens  and  totter- 
ing old  age.     There  I  saw  statesmen  drink  bumpers  with  ward 


THE  OLD   PLANTATION  143 

politicians,  and  perfumed  and  dainty  swells  clink  glasses  with 
brawny  and  sw^aggering  champions  of  the  prize  ring;  there 
many  an  innocent  boy  just  from  the  old  plantation,  with  his 
mother's  last  kiss  still  warm  on  his  lips  and  his  father's  bene- 
diction still  fresh  in  his  heart,  poured  out  his  first  libation  to 
the  god  of  wine  and  entered  the  world  of  sin  through  the  beau- 
tiful gate  of  temptation. 

The  scene  changed,  and  I  wandered,  half  bewildered,  down 
the  avenue.  There  I  saw  unguarded  youth,  charmed  by  the 
meretricious  glances  of  fallen  beauty  and  lured  into  the  silken 
web  of  tinseled  sin,  where  remorseless  guilt  feeds  on  the  pol- 
luted husks  of  ruined  and  blighted  hearts,  and  I  thought  of 
the  story  of  the  spider  and  the  fly. 

The  scene  changed  again,  and  I  entered  a  temple  dedicated 
to  the  fickle  goddess  of  chance.  I  heard  the  click  of  the  roulette 
wheel,  and  the  rattle  of  poker  chips,  and  the  clink  of  golden 
coin.  It  was  the  sound  of  the  clods  on  the  coffin  of  fortune.  I 
heard  half-uttered  groans  from  quivering  lips,  and  hoarse  mut- 
terings  and  muffled  oaths  from  the  clenched  teeth  of  despera- 
tion. I  saw  Augiiish  hovering  there,  silent  and  tense,  like  a 
brooding  angel,  and  beside  her  stood  pale  and  haggard  Ruin, 
with  drawn  dagger  pointed  at  his  own  heart,  and  he  said :  "Fare- 
well, O  blissful  dream  of  happiness;  farewell  to  the  sweet  mem- 
ories of  a  mother's  kisses  and  a  mother's  prayers." 

The  day  died  into  the  night,  the  night  vanished  before  the 
light  of  a  beautiful  Sabbath  morning,  and  I  entered  a  temple 
of  the  living  God.  Its  broad  aisles  shone  with  the  elite  of  the 
metropolis,  and  the  soft,  rich  radiance  of  the  costumed  worship- 
ers was  like  a  dream  of  patrician  wealth  and  glory.  The  sanctu- 
ary was  redolent  of  flowers,  and  the  vast  assemblage  sat  mo- 
tionless under  the  eloquence  of  the  great  divine  as  he  wielded 
the  keen-edged  sword  of  the  Spirit,  now  a  gospel  Mars,  piercing 
shields  and  cleaving  helmets ;  now  an  Olympian  Jove,  hurling 
thunderbolts  that  were  forged  in  heaven ;  and  then  out  from  the 
golden  pipes  of  the  great  organ  the  seraph  of  music  fluttered 
on  the  air  and  bore  me  upward  on  his  outstretched  wings  to  the 
crystal  heights  of  song  till  my  raptured  soul  caught  glimpses 
of  the  jew^el  walls  of  the  Eternal  City. 


144  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

The  sacred  pageant  dissolved  and  I  explored  the  slums  of 
that  city  by  the  sea.  I  walked  amid  the  squalid  tenements  of 
poverty  and  sin,  unillumined  by  hope,  unhallowed  by  love,  and 
where  even  mercy  trembles  to  tread.  I  saw  manhood  crushed 
in  the  coils  of  debauchery,  and  motherhood  degraded  into  the 
depths  of  shame,  but  as  there  are  pearls  in  the  filthiest  of 
streams,  so  God's  jewels  are  sometimes  hidden  in  the  reeking 
cesspools  of  humanity. 

In  one  of  these  tenements  of  crime  a  child  lay  dying  on  a 
pallet  of  rags.  Her  white  hand  clenched  a  flower.  The  roses 
had  vanished  from  her  cheeks,  and  there  was  nothing  left  but 
withered  lilies.  The  blessed  sunshine  crept  through  the  nar- 
row canon  of  the  street  and  hung  enthralled  in  her  golden  hair, 
and  the  sky  above  had  left  its  blue  and  its  stars  in  her  innocent 
eyes.  Divine  love  had  set  its  aureole  of  glory  about  her  tender 
life,  and  the  lowest  outcast  caressed  her  and  the  vilest  lips  spoke 
blessings  upon  her  head.  All  who  looked  on  the  solemn  scene 
bowed  in  silence  to  this  majesty  in  rags.  Did  I  say  majesty? 
Was  not  this  the  royal  death  chamber  of  God's  elect,  and  was 
not  this  little  bed  of  rags  the  jeweled  couch  of  an  angel  ?  Was 
it  not  the  coronation  scene  of  an  immortal  soul  ?  There  was  a 
sigh,  a  gasp,  and  the  storm  of  life  was  hushed  forever;  and  as 
the  sinless  spirit  took  its  flight  I  thought  I  caught  faint  swells 
of  music  from  another  world;  I  thought  I  heard  the  rustle  of 
invisible  wings. 

I  looked  upon  these  shifting  scenes  of  life  in  that  city  by 
the  sea,  and  I  dreamed  of  the  old  plantation  far  away,  where 
the  sk}^  is  blue  above  and  the  earth  below  is  green — where  peace 
dwells  in  the  quiet  vales  and  contentment  sings  among  the 
hills. 

I  wondered  why  thousands  would  languish  in  crowded  alleys, 
when  nature  is  beckoning  them  away  to  her  landscapes  of  beauty, 
where  the  wild  flowers  bloom  and  the  sunshine  plays  "hide  and 
seek"  with  the  shadows  through  the  long  surmuer  days. 

I  wondered  why  the  toiling  millions  would  dwell  amid  the 
stench  and  blackened  walls  of  misery  and  be  slaves  to  heartless 
masters,  when  untouched  fields  and  cooling  springs  invite  the 
happy  home,  and  the  virgin  soil  still  waits  for  the  plowman  and 
his  merry  song. 


THE   OLD   PLANTATION  145 

I  wondered  why  helpless  children  should  be  doomed  to  die 
in  polluted  hovels  when  green  meadows  bid  them  come  and 
chase  the  butterflies  among  the  clover  blossoms,  and  the  bloom- 
ing hills  call  them  hither  to  romp  and  play  where  the  happy 
birds  sing,  and  the  brawling  brooks  leap  and  laugh  down  the 
dusky  hollows. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  there  is  a  halo  of  glory  about  every 
beautiful  city  which  charms  us  all.  There  is  an  inspiration  in 
every  statue  and  marble  column.  Every  dome  is  the  embodi- 
ment of  a  thought,  and  every  glittering  spire  lends  enchantment 
to  the  view. 

We  delight  to  listen  to  the  chiming  of  bells  and  the  music 
of  industry.  We  are  bewildered  by  the  numberless  fads  and 
fashions  of  society,  and  dazzled  by  the  brilliancy  of  the  drama 
and  the  opera.  We  love  to  walk  among  the  creations  of  art  and 
in  the  atmosphere  of  literature  and  culture.  We  love  to  go 
where  poetry  mingles  its  rhythmic  flow  with  the  prose  of  life, 
and  where  sculpture  and  painting  gladden  our  eyes  and  thrill 
our  hearts.  Yet  what  are  all  the  achievements  of  human  art 
compared  with  the  prodigal  glories  of  the  natural  world  ?  What 
are  the  potted  plants  that  perfume  the  palace  hall  compared  with 
rural  flower  gardens  that  scent  the  evening  gale?  What  are 
the  pent-up  parks  compared  with  the  countless  shady  dells  ? 
What  are  domes  to  mountains,  and  spires  to  peaks,  and  what 
are  burnished  towers  compared  with  a  thousand  templed  hills 
that  shake  from  their  leafy  boughs  the  dewdrops  of  the  morn- 
ing? 

Let  the  Avizards  of  finance  meet  in  their  gorgeous  club  rooms 
to  sip  and  smoke  and  shuffle  the  cards  of  fortune,  but  give  me 
a  fisherman's  tent  and  a  fisherman's  luck  on  the  bank  of  a  moon- 
lit river,  where  hearts  are  trumps  and  souls  overflow  with  song 
and  story. 

What  is  a  thrill  of  victory  on  the  stock  exchange  compared 
to  the  joy  a  fisherman  feels  when  a  game  trout  strikes  his  baited 
hook,  and  the  good  reel  sings  as  he  gives  him  line,  and  the  fish- 
ing rod  bends  and  the  waters  splash  ?  And  what  eloquent  words 
escape  his  lips  when  he  thinks  he  has  landed  the  fish,  and  his  line 
gets  tangled  among  the  limbs  ten  feet  above  his  head,  and  he 
sees  his  panting  prize  dangle  for  a  moment  in  the  air,  and  then, 


146  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

with  a  farewell  flutter,  bid  him  good  evening  as  he  drops  back 
into  the  water  and  darts  away  like  an  arrow  ? 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  five  fishermen  who  lived  to- 
gether in  a  cabin  on  the  banks  of  a  Southern  river  ?  The  only 
sleeping  arrangements  they  had  were  two  quilts.  They  all  slept 
together  on  one  and  covered  with  the  other,  and  in  the  night, 
when  one  wished  to  turn  over,  he  shouted  "Spoon !"  and  they  all 
turned  over  together.  One  day  one  of  the  boys  went  out  alone 
to  shoot  fish.  He  climbed  a  tree  on  the  bank  and  crawled  out 
on  a  limb  over  the  stream,  and  lay  there,  looking  down,  waiting 
for  a  trout  to  come  in  sight ;  but  his  position  was  so  comfortable 
that  he  Avent  to  sleep,  and  a  mischievous  fellow,  passing  by, 
knowing  the  habit  of  the  fishermen  when  they  wanted  to  turn 
over,  shouted  "Spoon!"  at  the  top  of  his  voice;  the  sleeping  fish- 
erman instantly  turned  over  and  fell  ten  feet  "kersplash"  into 
the  water. 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  tale  of  Mark  Antony,  the  funeral 
orator  of  Rome  and  the  Romeo  of  the  ISTile  ?  He  went  angling 
in  Egypt  one  day  on  the  royal  barge  with  the  beautiful  Cleo- 
patra, and  he  fished  and  fished,  unrewarded  by  a  nibble,  imtil 
the  hours  grew  dull  and  heavy;  but  the  cunning  queen  con- 
ceived a  plan  to  change  her  lover's  luck,  and  unfolded  the  scheme 
to  a  slave,  and  the  slave  secretly  dived  from  the  larboard  side 
of  the  boat  and  hung  a  dried  herring  on  the  general's  hook  and 
then  gave  his  line  a  vigorous  pull.  "By  Jupiter,"  shouted 
Mark  Antony,  "I  have  hooked  a  monstrous  fish."  "Take  care, 
my  lord,  and  give  him  line,  lest  he  drag  thee  into  the  sea,"  cried 
the  dark-eyed  queen  as  she  chuckled  behind  her  fan. 

"By  the  gods,  that  fish  shall  flounder  on  thy  deck,  or  1  shall 
flounder  beneath  the  waves,"  cried  the  impetuous  Roman.  He 
squared  himself  and  gave  a  mighty  jerk,  but  fell  sprawling  on 
his  back  at  the  feet  of  the  laughing  queen,  and  when  he  looked 
up  and  saw  nothing  but  a  little  dried  herring  dangling  among 
the  ropes  above  him,  he  blandly  smiled  and  dryly  said:  "He 
was  a  monstrous  fish  while  biting,  but  between  his  bite  and  my 
jerk  he  has  wonderfully  shriveled,  but  he's  the  oldest-looking 
fish  and  he  has  the  loudest  smell  of  any  fish  that  ever  perfumed 
the  royal  barge." 


THE   OLD    PLANTATION  147 

And  so  many  an  ambitious  Antony  sits  in  the  stock  ex- 
change of  the  great  city  and  drops  his  hook  in  the  sea  of  specu- 
lation, and  he  fishes  and  fishes  with  his  little  wad  of  hard- 
earned  cash  until  some  shrewd  manipulator,  just  to  change  his 
luck,  takes  the  little  wad  off  and  gives  the  line  a  heavy  pull,  and 
when  our  guileless  Antony  thinks  he  has  hooked  a  million,  he 
jerks  and  falls  at  the  feet  of  fickle  fortune  and  finds  dangling  in 
the  air  above  him  only  the  dried  herring  of  a  shriveled  hope, 
and  there  is  nothing  left  but  the  aged  look  of  an  empty  purse 
and  the  smell  of  a  dream  that  is  vanished. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  environment  is  the  great  moulder  of 
human  thought  and  human  character.  It  gives  shape  to  all  our 
ideals  of  the  beautiful  and  all  our  dreams  of  happiness. 

The  environments  of  brick  and  mortar  which  wall  in  the 
mighty  cities  of  the  world  develop  genius  and  stimulate  activity 
in  a  thousand  vocations  of  life,  but  they  contract  the  ideals  of 
men  to  the  circumference  of  a  dollar,  and  shape  their  dreams 
of  happiness  to  all  the  gilded  forms  of  artificial  pleasure  which 
money  alone  can  buy. 

Such  environments  quicken  the  brain  and  give  it  power  to 
grasp  colossal  problems,  and  fret  continents  with  lines  of  steel, 
and  weave  the  web  of  civilization  around  the  golden  thrones  of 
money  kings;  but  they  chill  the  nobler  and  better  impulses  of 
the  heart  and  make  it  cold  and  indifferent  to  the  pure  and  beau- 
tiful sentiments  of  life. 

Did  you  ever  watch  a  bevy  of  city  swells  and  society  belles 
swinging  and  whirling  under  the  flaming  chandeliers  until  the 
coat  tails  of  the  swells  jDopped  like  whip-crackers  and  the  skirts 
of  the  belles  flapped  like  the  sails  of  a  schooner  in  a  high  wind  ? 
That  was  a  piping  gale  of  urban  pleasure. 

Did  you  ever  attend  a  g-reat  reception  in  the  heart  of  the 
metropolis  ?  It  was  a  gorgeous  scene  of  icicles  and  spectacles, 
and  broadcloth  and  jeweled  skeletons,  arrayed  in  white  slippers 
and  rarest  silks  of  richest  colors ;  and  the  icicles  and  the  spec- 
tacles bowed  to  the  skeletons,  and  the  skeletons  bowed  to  the 
icicles  and  the  spectacles;  and  the  skeleton  and  the  icicles  and 
the  spectacles  talked  of  their  bicycles  and  tricycles,  and  discussed 
various  articles,  and  drank  champagne  and  sherry,  and  got  very 
merry,  and  wound  up  with  oysters  and  dill  pickles;  and  the 


148  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

icicles  and  the  spectacles  got  in  their  vehicles  and  went  home 
with  the  girls  in  the  morning.  That  was  the  cream  of  urban 
civilization. 

Did  you  ever  gaze  on  a  gaudy  throng  of  bald-headed  ApoUos 
and  painted  Minervas  walling  their  eyes  in  speechless  rapture 
before  the  garrish  lights  of  the  grand  opera  ?  How  the  fans  and 
ribbons  fluttered,  and  the  side  whiskers  swayed  and  spluttered, 
as  the  shrieking  harmonies  of  Wagner  shook  the  crowded  audi- 
torium !  That  was  the  tuneless  pandemonium  of  urban  environ- 
ment. 

The  lover  of  a  modem  female  lawyer  began  to  plead  with 
her  one  day  for  her  heart  and  hand,  but  she  motioned  him  away 
and  sternly  said:  "Put  your  proposition  in  waiting,  sir;  I 
haven't  time  to  listen  to  an  oral  arcimient  todav," 

"I  understand,"  said  the  old-fashioned  woman,  ''that  your 
children  are  studying  for  professions."  "Yes,"  said  the  new 
woman,  "my  daughter  is  reading  medicine  and  my  son  is  going 
to  be  a  dressmaker." 

An  old  man  lay  on  his  deathbed  in  that  city  by  the  sea,  and 
the  doctor  bent  over  him  and  said,  "You  are  dying,  sir.  You 
will  soon  meet  the  King  of  Terrors.  Are  you  afraid  to  meet 
him  ?"  "ISTo,"  said  the  feeble  patient ;  "I'm  not  a  bit  afraid  to 
meet  him ;  I've  been  living  with  the  Queen  of  Terrors  for  forty 
years." 

That  very  same  day  a  masculine  old  woman,  wearing  short 
skirts  and  a  man's  hat,  walked  into  the  telegraph  office  in  that 
city  by  the  sea  and  telegraphed  her  brother  down  on  the  old 
plantation:  "My  husband  died  this  morning.  Loss  fully  cov- 
ered by  insurance." 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  would  rather  be  a  worshiper  at 
nature's  shrine,  with  my  cheeks  and  hands  all  tanned  by  the 
summer's  sun  and  my  heart  as  light  as  the  wing  of  a  bird;  I 
would  rather  watch  a  peaceful  flock  graze  among  the  hills,  and 
gather  luscious  fruits  from  bending  boughs  and  purple  grapes 
from  staggering  vines,  than  to  dwell  in  that  city  by  the  sea, 
among  the  awful  inequalities  of  life — where  the  fruits  of  artifi- 
cial pleasure  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips. 

I  would  rather  wake  from  my  restful  slumbers  in  a  cottage 
doA\Ti  on  the  old  plantation,  when  the  morning  is  hanging  her 


THE   OLD    PLANTATION  149 

banners  of  purple  and  gold  on  the  eastern  sky,  and  take  down 
my  hunter's  horn  and  call  my  eager  fox  hounds  to  the  chase 
deep  in  the  gloomy  woods  of  autumn,  or  gather  up  my  fishing 
tackle  in  the  afternoon  and  go  angling  for  speckled  trout  in  the 
brimming  pools  of  the  mountain  brooks,  or  trolling  for  bass  and 
salmon  in  the  w^hirling  eddies  of  the  river,  than  to  join  the 
hungry  throngs  who  crowd  the  streets  of  that  city  by  the  sea  in 
the  wild  pursuit  of  the  almighty  dollar. 

When  I  speak  of  the  old  plantation  I  mean  the  peaceful 
realms  of  rural  life  far  from  the  maddening  strife  of  men, 
whether  they  be  the  broad  and  fertile  fields  of  the  rich  or  the 
himable  cabins  of  the  poor,  with  only  gardens  and  springs,  and 
with  roses  blooming  at  the  door. 

I  mean  the  sunlit  hills  and  the  dreamy  dells  of  the  country, 
where  God  curtains  the  earth  with  blade  and  leaf  and  flower, 
and  festoons  the  winding  streams  with  spreading  trees  and 
tangling  vines. 

I  mean  the  environments  of  the  farm,  where  Art  is  born  and 
Literature  drinks  at  the  fountain  of  the  beautiful,  and  where 
INTature  rocks  the  cradles  of  poets  and  orators.  It  is  not  always 
a  paradise,  yet  it  is  always  beautiful.  Its  skies  are  not  always 
clear  and  calm,  yet  the  sunshine  is  brightest  after  the  storm, 
and,  like  God's  love  and  mercy,  it  is  free  to  all. 

Serpents  crawl  among  its  fairest  flowers,  and  every  bee  that 
gathers  honey  there  has  a  sting.  It  has  its  thistles  and  its 
thorns,  and  there  are  graveyards  and  trials  and  tribulations 
down  on  the  old  plantation.  Yet  it  is  the  storehouse  of  senti- 
ment, and  in  its  sweet  solitudes  the  angels  of  peace  and  happi- 
ness forever  dwell. 

There  was  a  wedding  one  night  far  down  the  peaceful  val 
ley,  and  in  the  years  that  followed  I  saw  a  half  dozen  curly- 
headed  girls  romping  around  their  mother's  knee  and  a  half 
dozen  noisy  boys  diving  like  didappers  and  swimming  like 
ducks  down  at  the  old  swimming  hole,  or  fishing  in  the  eddies, 
or  yelling,  or  running  rabbits  in  the  briar  field.  They  were 
the  fruits  of  the  union  of  the  plow  boy  and  the  milk  maiden, 
and  I  shouted,  "Three  cheers  for  the  Union!"  because  I  knew 
that  the  great  majority  of  the  men  who  succeed  and  distinguish 
themselves  in  the  world  are  eountrv-bred,  and  but  for  the  brawn 


150  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

and  brain  and  the  fresh  blood  that  flows  in  from  the  old  planta- 
tion, the  grass  would  soon  grow  green  in  the  streets  of  that  city 
by  the  sea. 

If  you  want  to  make  a  man  of  your  boy  and  give  him 
muscle  and  brain  and  constitution,  take  him  away  from  the 
environments  of  the  sweltering  city  and  turn  him  loose  on  the 
farm,  and  let  him  caper  among  the  bull-bats  and  billy  goats, 
and  let  him  convert  himself  into  a  circus  and  turn  somersaults 
and  tumble  in  the  air  like  a  straw  hat  in  a  cyclone ;  let  him 
carry  his  big  toe  in  a  sling,  and  climb  up  and  straddle  the  comb 
of  the  barn  room  and  yell  like  an  Indian,  or  explore  the  bottom 
of  the  well  in  search  of  bull  frogs.  It  will  give  him  nerve  and 
spirit. 

Let  him  mix  up  in  a  dog  light,  and  shiver  lances  with  a 
butting  ram,  and  play  Mazeppa  on  the  back  of  a  yearling 
steer.  It  will  teach  him  the  lessons  of  courage  and  self- 
confidence. 

Let  him  venture  where  angels  dare  not  tread.  His  grand- 
mother may  have  hysterics  every  day,  and  his  mother  may  wear 
mourning  in  anticipation  of  the  final  tragedy,  hut  fear  not — 
you  can't  kill  him. 

Let  him  put  red  pepper  in  the  cat's  mouth,  and  flash  gim- 
powder  under  the  dog's  nose,  and  stampede  the  calf  with  his 
mother's  parasol. 

Let  him  sew  up  the  leg  of  his  slumbering  father's  pantaloons, 
and  hide  under  the  sofa  when  his  big  sister's  beau  calls,  and 
put  asafoetida  in  the  soup,  and  receive  a  "thrashing"  every 
hour,  for  it  will  imbue  him  with  the  doctrine  of  eternal  punish- 
ment. 

Let  him  learn  to  be  ISTature's  lover  and  gather  her  songs  in 
his  heart  and  hang  upon  her  lips  like  a  smitten  cupid. 

Let  him  daily  keep  tryst  with  her  in  the  sunny  field  and 
silent  woods,  and  pillow  his  head  on  her  bosom  by  the  babbling 
brook,  where  the  blue  bells  kiss  the  marigolds  in  the  love- 
whispering  breeze,  and  dream  away  the  golden  hours  to  the 
sweet  lullabies  of  the  robin  and  the  bob-o-link. 

Let  him  walk  in  her  sequestered  lanes  where  the  hawthorn's 
overarching  bloom  is  melodious  with  red  birds  and  amorous 
with  doves. 


THE   OLD    PLANTATION  15 1 

Let  him  go  where  the  tangled  glades  are  splashed  with  red 
buds  and  the  dogwood  blossoms  star  with  white  the  leafy  robes 
of  May,  where  the  rabbits  waltz  by  moonlight  and  the  catbird 
sings  his  sweetest  song,  for  in  him  some  day  may  awake  the 
muse  of  a  greater  Milton  or  the  harp  of  a  sweeter  Burns. 

Like  a  poet  Avithout  a  muse,  or  an  Apollo  without  eloquence, 
like  a  fireless  jewel,  or  an  unkindled  star,  is  the  man  who  has 
never  felt  the  touch  of  TTature  in  his  soul.  For  what  is  human 
art  but  the  mimicry  of  IsTature,  and  what  is  Nature  but  the 
art  of  God ! 

What  brush  has  ever  painted  the  poppy  as  the  sunbeam's 
pencil  paints  it? 

What  beauty  of  the  artist's  painted  dream 
Is  not  more  deftly  imaged  in  the  stream, 
Where  rocks  and  trees  and  bending  skies, 
Inverted  by  its  mirror,  downward  rise. 

Does  his  ear  long  for  harmony? — the  very  hills  are  thrones 
of  music.  Does  his  eye  crave  the  beautiful  ? — April  carpets 
the  meadows  with  violets,  and  June  damasks  his  cottage  wall 
with  roses;  the  morning  sows  the  fields  with  orient  pearls,  and 
the  evening  glorifies  the  sunset  skies  with  a  thousand  shattered 
rainbows. 

Autumn  slows  the  bounding  pulse  of  Summer  with  the 
kindly  touch  of  death,  and,  lo!  she  falls  to  sleep  on  a  funeral 
pyre  of  colors  as  gorgeous  as  a  dream  of  heaven. 

Then  Winter  comes  with  silent  tread, 
And  on  his  heart  lays  Autumn's  head, 
And  on  her  heart  his  jeweled  hand. 
And  stills  that  heart  forever. 
Then  o'er  her  rears  a  spotless  tomb. 

As  from  the  vales  her  requiem  swells, 
And  wreathes  it  from  his  magic  loom 

With  crystal  immortelles. 

It  is  here  that  the  unfettered  and  impressionable  boy  re- 
ceives his  first  and  best  inspirations  of  thought  and  senti- 
ment. 

It  is  here  that  his  fancy  takes  wings  and  makes  its  first 
flights  into  the  bright  realm  of  dreams. 


152  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

It  is  here  that  he  is  first  aroused  by  the  call  of  glory,  and 
kneels  before  ITature's  majesty  and  receives  her  royal  stroke  of 
knighthood. 

The  great  civilizations  of  the  past  were  born  and  nurtured 
in  the  lap  of  husbandry.  That  rich  agriculture  born  of  the 
Nile  nursed  the  empire  of  the  Pharaohs  into  civic  greatness, 
whose  mighty  ruins  remain  today  the  eloquent  witnesses  of  a 
glory  that  marked  the  very  daAAOi  of  history.  The  harp  of 
Orpheus  and  the  Pandean  pipes  played  by  shepherds  and  farm- 
ers in  the  beautiful  land  of  the  Aegean  sounded  that  natal  song 
of  a  civilization  whose  soul  has  inspired  and  animated  the 
poetry  and  eloquence,  the  arts  and  arms  of  all  succeeding  cen- 
turies. 

There  was  once  a  civilization  in  the  land  of  my  nativity 
more  brilliant  than  any  that  ever  flourished  in  all  the  tide  of 
time.  About  its  ruins  there  clings  a  romantic  story  of  vanished 
dreams  made  holier  and  sweeter  by  lips  that  are  hushed  and. 
hearts  that  now  are  dust,  and  there  is  nothing  left  but  the 
memory  of  its  departed  glory,  lingering  among  its  tombstones 
and  monuments,  like  the  fragrance  of  flowers  that  are  faded 
and  gone.  It  ruled  from  a  throne  of  living  ebony  and  made 
the  world  its  tributary.  It  opened  the  floodgates  of  wealth  and 
deluged  the  world  with  gold.  Its  realm  was  the  sunny  South, 
the  paradise  of  the  cotton  and  the  sugar  cane,  kept  by  the  dusky 
Adams  and  Eves  of  toil;  and  amid  its  magnolia-scented  laby- 
rinths of  shade  walked  the  chivalry  and  beauty  of  a  lordly 
race. 

It  was  a  proud  and  imperial  civilization,  but,  like  great 
Caesar,  it  foil  with  an  hundred  gaping  wounds,  and  its  bleed- 
ing corpse  dissolved  into  ashes  long  ago  on  the  funeral  pile 
of  war. 

I  would  not  stir  your  hearts  to  pity  nor  recall  those  gaping 
wounds  tonight;  but  rather  let  me  lift  the  veil  of  memory  and 
give  you  a  glimpse  of  the  golden  days  of  the  old  plantation 
before  our  Caesar  fell. 

There,  half  hidden  in  the  groves  of  live  oaks  and  magnolia 
trees,  where  the  mocking  birds  chuckled  and  laughed,  and  the 
twittering  bluebirds  built  their  nests,  stood  the  white-columned 


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tHE  OLD   PLANTATION  I  $3 

mansion  of  the  master,  where  life  reached  the  high  tide  of 
baronial  splendor. 

And  stretching  away  to  the  horizon  were  the  snowy  cotton 
fields,  alive  with  the  toiling  slaves,  who,  without  a  single  care 
to  burden  their  hearts,  sang  as  they  toiled  from  early  morn  till 
close  of  day. 

Every  sunrise  of  summer  was  greeted  by  the  laughter  and 
songs  of  the  darkies  as  they  scattered  in  gangs  and  went  forth 
in  every  direction  to  begin  the  labors  of  the  day,  and  the  music 
floated  back  to  the  mansion  to  sweeten  the  morning  dreams  of 
the  drowsy  lords  and  ladies  who  still  rested  on  their  pillows. 
The  negToes  of  that  day  were  the  most  musical  and  the  most 
humorous  race  of  people  who  ever  lived  in  the  world,  and  they 
wove  a  melody  into  every  task  they  performed;  every  leisure 
hour  was  filled  with  their  mirth  and  their  merriment,  and  they 
were  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  were 
firm  believers  in  the  providence  of  Almighty  God.  There  was 
not  an  infidel  among  those  millions  of  slaves. 

I  sat  on  the  veranda  of  an  old  plantation  home  in  the  gath- 
ering twilight  of  evening  and  listened  to  the  chiming  of  the 
distant  village  bells  and  the  responsive  hymn  of  the  weary 
negroes  as  they  came  flocking  homeward  from  the  cotton 
fields  singing. 

The  negro  quarters  around  the  mansion  were  the  shrines  of 
innocent  pleasure,  where  the  dusky  revelers  gathered  every 
night,  with  banjo  and  fiddle,  to  play,  and  pat,  and  sing,  and 
dance  away  the  long,  happy  hours. 

I  have  heard  them  play  and  sing  until  the  very  heavens 
seemed  to  turn  into  sheets  of  music ;  every  star  w- as  a  note  and 
every  constellation  was  a  song.  I  have  seen  them  dance  until 
the  smoke  and  pleasure  of  the  bonfire  sprung  corners  with  the 
moonbeams  in  the  air.  I  have  heard  them  laugh  until  the 
ripening  corn  grinned  through  the  shuck  and  the  tickled  chest- 
nut burrs  spread  their  mouths  and  chuckled.  The  old  darkies 
and  the  kinky-headed  pickaninnies  formed  a  circle  around  the 
dancers,  and  all  patted  and  sang  together,  keeping  time  with  the 
music  of  the  fiddle. 

I  have  heard  them  hum  to  flying  shuttles  and  the  clank  of 
drumming  battens,  and  beat  time  to  the  music  of  whirling  bob- 

(10) 


154  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

bins,  and  the  great  banks  of  cotton  and  wool  melted  away  like 
snow  in  June,  and  then  reappeared  in  ponderous  bolts  of  jeans 
and  linsey. 

And  then  I  have  seen  them  in  the  sewing  room  and  heard 
the  snip  of  shears,  and  the  grating  of  thimbles,  and  the  sighing 
of  thread  till  the  last  garment  was  finished  and  the  black  bodies 
were  made  proof  against  the  cold  and  the  chilling  blasts  of 
winter. 

And  then,  in  the  dreamy  days  of  autumnal  glory,  when  its 
gold  was  on  the  forest  and  the  mellow  sun  poured  amber  on  the 
russet  fields,  I  have  watched  my  mother  as  she  sat  by  the  win- 
dow in  her  big  arm  chair  knitting  for  her  slaves.  The  rhythmic 
movement  of  her  graceful  fingers  was  visible  music;  it  was 
enchantment;  it  was  magic  in  yarn,  and  the  big  white  ball  cut 
capers  on  the  floor. 

And  her  needles  danced  like  witches. 

And  those  nimble  fingers  flew 
As  they  deftly  threw  the  stitches, 

And  the  great  white  stocking  grew. 

But  as  each  autumn  came  and  went  I  saw  new  silver  in  her 
hair  and  new  lines  of  coming  age  in  her  beautiful  face,  and 
her  lovelit  eyes  grew  dim ;  and  then  at  last,  with  my  old  black 
mammy,  they  buried  her  on  the  hill,  and  my  father,  too,  is  sleep- 
ing there. 

Whatever  may  have  been  said  by  lecturers  or  novelists  to 
the  contrary,  the  old-time  Southern  darkey  was  the  happiest  be- 
ing on  the  Lord's  green  earth.  He  took  no  thought  of  the 
morrow,  what  he  should  eat  or  what  he  should  drink,  and  not  a 
wave  of  trouble  rolled  across  his  lazy  heart.  He  was  as  prone 
to  idleness  as  the  sparks  are  to  fly  upward,  and  when  his  master 
caught  him  napping  in  the  field,  he  turned  ashey  and  protested 
that  he  was  the  sickest  negi'o  in  the  world. 

One  day  an  old-time  planter,  who  was  a  lawyer  as  well, 
came  home  from  court  and  found  his  darkies  lounging  about 
and  sleeping  under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  and  he  sternly  called 
them  around  him,  with  a  thunderstorm  on  his  brow,  and  harshly 
said :  "If  you  lazy,  good-for-nothing  niggers  don't  quit  loung- 
ing and  sleeping  around  here  and  get  up  and  go  to  work,  I  will 
quit  practicing  law  and  let  you  all  starve  to  death." 


THE   OLD   PLANTATION  155 

A  lazj  old  darky  got  married  one  night  and  gave  the 
preacher  a  string  of  fish  for  tying  the  knot.  In  about  two 
months  the  preacher  met  him  and  said :  "Rastus,  how  are  you 
and  Aunt  Dinah  getting  along?"  "Well,  boss,"  Uncle  Rastus 
said,  "I  wish  to  de  Lawd  I  had  et  dem  fish." 

An  ambitious  old  negro  concluded  he  would  go  into  the  egg 
business  and  make  some  money  on  the  outside,  and  he  visited 
the  neighboring  chicken  roosts  by  moonlight  and  procured  some 
fine  hens  and  a  rooster ;  but  somehow  or  other  the  hens  wouldn't 
lay,  and  the  old  darky  was  very  much  discouraged.  He  was 
sitting  in  front  of  his  cabin  one  evening,  when  the  old  rooster 
hopped  up  on  the  porch  and  flopped  his  wings  and  crowed.  The 
old  man  looked  at  him  and  said:  "Yes,  flopping  your  wings 
and  crowing  around  here  like  an  old  fool,  and  you  can't  lay  an 
egg  to  save  your  life." 

Uncle  Rastus  met  Uncle  Nicodemus  one  day  and  said: 
"Nicodemus,  do  you  'spoze  any  of  de  'postles  wuz  cullud?" 
"I'se  not  sho  'bout  dat,  Rastus,"  said  Nicodemus,  "but  I'se 
powerful  sho  dat  Simon  Peter  ^vuz  no  nigger,  'cause  ef  he  had 
been,  dat  rooster  neber  would  a-crowed  three  times." 

Old  Uncle  Ephraim's  wife  died,  and  the  old  man  moaned, 
and  yelled,  and  shouted,  and  finally  jumped  in  the  grave  and 
wanted  to  be  buried  with  her,  but  a  big,  stout  darky  jerked 
him  out  and  held  him.  The  old  man  looked  around  in  his  wrath 
and  said :  "Turn  me  loose,  nigger,  and  go  'way  f um  here ;  you 
neber  did  lak  to  see  me  enjoy  myse'f." 

Uncle  Rastus  was  a  preacher,  and  his  master  was  also  a 
preacher.  He  couldn't  read  a  word  in  the  book,  and  was,  there- 
fore, compelled  to  rely  on  his  master  for  his  texts. 

He  shuffled  into  the  mansion  one  Saturday  evening  and 
said:  "Excuse  me,  master,  but  what  is  yo'  text  gwine  to  be 
for  tomorrow,  ef  you  please,  sir  ?" 

"It  is  this,  Rastus,"  the  old  man  said,  "  'And  the  multi- 
tudes came  unto  him  and  he  healed  them  of  divers  diseases.'  " 

Uncle  Rastus  thanked  his  master  and  bowed  himself  out, 
and  next  morning  he  rose  before  his  congregation  and  said :  "My 
congregation,  I'se  got  de  dangerousest  text  'twixt  the  lids  of  the 
Bible.  It  is  dis:  'And  de  multitudes  came  unto  him  and  he 
healed  dem  of  divers  diseases.'     Mark  de  words  of  de  text: 


156  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

'Divers  diseases.'  Now,  according  to  dis  here  text,  disease  is 
in  de  world — de  yaller  fever  kills  hits  thousands,  and  de  small- 
pox hits  tens  of  thousands.  Sometimes  dese  earthly  doctors  can 
cuore  de  yaller  fever  ef  dey  gits  to  it  in  time.  Sometimes  dey 
can  cuore  de  smallpox,  but,  in  the  language  of  de  text,  ef  you 
takes  de  divers  you's  done  dead  right  now !  Nobody  but  de  Lord 
can  cuore  de  divers." 

The  queens  of  the  mansions  were  perfect  types  of  Caucasian 
beauty,  and  they  were  wooed  and  won  under  arbors  of 
Marechal  Niels  and  among  the  cape  jasmines  by  men  as  proud 
and  courtly  as  ever  shivered  lances  in  the  romantic  days  when 
loiighthood  was  in  flower. 

They  lived  in  ease  and  luxury,  and  each  day  was  a  link  in 
the  golden  chain  of  pleasure. 


DIXIE 


DIXIE 

When  the  angels  of  the  Lord  had  laid  out  and  completed  the 
second  paradise  on  earth,  which  I  think  the  cherubim  and  sera- 
phim named  the  beautiful  Land  of  Dixie — when  they  had  rested 
under  the  shade  of  its  trees  and  bathed  in  its  crystal  waters,  and 
breathed  the  perfume  of  its  flowers,  they  spread  their  wings 
on  its  mellow  air  and  mounted  upward  toward  the  skies.  They 
hung  a  rainbow  on  the  clouds,  and,  pursuing  its  gorgeous  arch- 
way northward  over  hill  and  vale  and  mountain,  and  across  the 
Potomac  and  the  Ohio,  they  alighted  to  tie  its  other  end  to  earth, 
and  behold  there  lay  stretched  out  before  them  another  empire  of 
transcendent  beauty,  and  lo!  they  made  a  third  paradise  and 
called  it  the  Land  of  Yankee  Doodle,  Ever  since  that  dav  the 
rainbow  has  rested  with  one  end  on  Dixie,  and  the  other  end  on 
Yankee  Doodle,  and  its  radiant  arch  overshadows  a  race  of  the 
bravest  men,  and  the  most  beautiful  women  that  the  sun  in 
heaven  ever  shone  upon. 

Every  patriotic  American  citizen  loves  and  honors  every  inch 
of  soil  that  lies  between  the  two  ends  of  that  rainbow,  and  should 
any  foreign  foe  set  foot  upon  our  shores  all  the  sons  of  the 
South  would  spring  to  arms,  and  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  all 
the  sons  of  the  N^orth,  they  would  rush  into  battle,  keeping  step 
to  the  music  of  the  martial  airs  of  Yankee  Doodle  and  Dixie. 

But  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  is  still  there.  Law  cannot 
abolish  it.  The  terrible  struggle  which  put  Yankee  Doodle  on 
the  pension  list  and  Dixie  on  crutches  could  not  wipe  it  out. 
It  is  still  there.  Geographically  we  are  one — in  the  pride  of  our 
ancestry  and  the  glory  of  American  achievement  we  are  one. 
But  in  climate,  in  production  of  the  soil,  in  thought,  sentiment, 
and  taste,  in  manners,  customs  and  prejudices  we  are  twain. 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line  is  still  there,  and  there  it  will  remain 
as  long  as  the  Yankee  says,  "You  hadn't  ought  to  do  it,"  and 
the  Southerner  says,  "I've  done  done  it."  But  the  sectional 
line  which  separates  them,  and  which  was  once  a  bloody  chasni. 
is  now  only  the  great  dividing  line  between  cold  bread  and  hot 
biscuits. 


l6o  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

But  still  we  are  fraternal,  and  who  will  prophesy  an  end  to 
our  fraternity  as  long  as  "Yankee  Doodle"  fattens  from  the 
hopper  of  high  protective  tariff  and  "Dixie"  generously  fills  the 
hopper — as  long  as  "Yankee  Doodle"  gets  the  fat  and  "Dixie" 
gets  the  fraternity. 

It  is  beautifully  illustrated  by  the  two  old  darkies  who 
bought  a  cow  in  partnership  and  rented  a  pasture  to  keep  her  in. 
But  Uncle  Yank  persisted  in  milking  the  cow  and  appropriating 
all  the  milk.  Uncle  Dick  poked  his  head  over  the  fence  one 
evening  while  Yank  was  milking  away.  "How's  dis,  Brudder 
Yank;  didn't  we  bought  dat  cow  in  partners,  half  and  half?" 
"Yas,  sah,  dat's  right."  "Well,  den,  how  is  it  you's  a-gittin'  all 
de  milk  ?"  Yank  rose  with  fire  in  his  eyes.  "Lookey  heah,  nig- 
gah,  I's  dun  'lected  fuh  to  choose  which  end  ob  de  cow  I  takes. 
I  takes  de  hine  half  ob  de  cow.  Now  walk  yoahself  away  from 
hear  and  go  to  work  and  git  up  somethin'  to  feed  youah  end  ob 
de  cow  and  quit  youah  nullifyin'  and  a  secedin'  frum  de  com- 
pact." 

But  let  me  whisper  a  secret  in  the  ear  of  "Yankee  Doodle." 
"Dixie"  is  smiling  on  the  West,  and  the  West  is  squeezing 
"Dixie's"  hand,  and  we  may  yet  have  the  equilibrium  of  gov- 
ernment which  will  give  to  each  section  a  fair  division  of  the 
milk. 

The  scenes  may  shift,  and  the  conditions  of  today  may 
change  tomorrow,  for  it  is  the  community  of  interests  which 
rules  the  destinies  of  Nations. 

The  perpetuity  of  the  Republic  depends  upon  the  peace  and 
harmony  of  the  sections  and  upon  the  equal  distribution  of  the 
fat  to  all  alike.  We  must  recognize  the  fact  that  there  are  and 
always  will  be  sectional  lines. 

An  old  politician  once  shouted  from  the  stump:  "Fellow 
Citizens :  I  know  no  North,  I  know  no  South,  I  know  no  East. 
I  know  no  West,"  and  a  barefooted  boy  yelled  from  the  gallery, 
"You'd  better  go  an'  study  gog-er-fey." 

I  think  the  boy  was  right.  I  believe  in  sectional  lines.  I 
believe  they  are  the  very  safeguards  of  the  Republic.  The  Mis- 
sissippi River  is  a  sectional  line  which  marks  the  eastern  boun- 
dary of  the  great  West.  The  Potomac  and  the  Ohio  constitute 
the  boundary  line  between  the  North  and  the  South,  and  each 


DIXIE  l6l 

of  these  great  sections  thus  divided  is  a  column  of  strength  and 
power  in  the  triple-pillared  Temple  of  the  Union. 

Yonder  stretches  the  i^orth  and  the  East,  glittering  with 
spired  cities,  crowded  with  busy  millions,  singing  the  songs  of 
progress  with  the  spindle  and  the  loom,  and  groaning  with 
wealth  and  politics.  It  is  the  emporium  of  universities  and 
prizefighters.  It  is  the  colossal  pillar  around  which  flourishes 
a  civilization  whose  triumphs  are  the  triumphs  of  cultured  brain 
and  cunning  hand,  and  whose  statesmanship  and  codfish  com- 
mand the  admiration  of  the  world. 

"Beyond  the  shining  trail  of  the  'Father  of  Waters,' 
'Where  Sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold,' " 

looms  the  mighty  pillar  of  the  West,  around  whose  base  there  lies 
another  vast  empire  of  territory,  and  under  whose  shadow  has 
leaped  into  life  a  new  and  marvelous  civilization,  gold-crowned 
and  silver-sandaled,  holding  in  its  right  hand  the  sheaves  of 
peace  and  plenty  and  in  its  left  hand  the  funnel-shaped  cloud. 
The  snoAvcapped  Rockies  are  its  w^atchtowers  and  the  tornado  is 
its  carrier  dove. 

But  fairer  than  the  Land  of  Yankee  Doodle,  and  richer  than 
the  prairied  West  is  the  empire  of  my  ovm  sweet  Sunny  South, 
the  land  of  flowers  and  tears,  of  beauty  and  of  sorrows,  the  land 
of  griefs  and  broken  columns.  With  all  its  sufferings  it  is  still 
the  garden  of  the  gods,  where  all  the  verdure  and  bloom  of 
"Paradise  Lost"  have  found  a  home.  Around  this  majestic 
pillar  of  our  Union  there  breathes  still  another  proud  civiliza- 
tion, whose  brow  is  wreathed  with  the  laurel  and  the  lily,  whose 
bloody  sword  is  sheathed,  and  whose  face  is  turned  toward  the 
morning. 

Behold,  then,  this  imperial  triumvirate  of  the  Western  Hem- 
isphere— this  mighty  trinity  of  empires,  unfettered  by  tyrants, 
undaunted  by  kings.  "Wherever  the  eagles  lead  them  with  forces 
joined  the  planet  will  tremble  and  the  Nations  of  the  earth 
must  quail. 

Thus  the  American  Union  is  divided  into  three  great  sec- 
tions and  the  sections  into  States,  and  these  sections  and  States, 
with  all  their  varieties  of  climate,  and  fruit  and  flower,  and 


l62  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

landscape  and  river,  and  lake  and  mountain,  blending  with  the 
innumerable  variations  of  thought  and  feeling,  and  loves,  and 
hopes,  and  memories,  make  up  one  gi'and  sweet  song  of  National 
harmony. 

It  would  not  do  for  our  country  to  be  all  North  nor  all 
South.  It  would  not  be  good  for  the  seasons  to  be  all  winter 
nor  all  summer. 

Sectional  lines  are  the  landmarks  of  diversity,  and  diversity 
is  the  law  of  the  universe.  It  kindles  the  stars  into  flame  and 
makes  them  glitter  like  islands  of  light  in  the  blue  ocean  of  the 
sky.  It  makes  the  rain  to  fall,  and  the  streams  to  run,  and  the 
winds  to  blow,  and  the  sun  to  shine.  It  wraps  the  North  in 
mantles  of  snow  and  ice.  It  robes  the  West  in  the  splendors  of 
the  setting  sun.  It  weaves  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  into 
pictured  tapestries  and  clothes  the  South  in  garments  of  peren- 
nial beauty.  Diversity  has  given  to  the  land  of  Yankee  Doodle 
the  heaviest  purse  and  to  the  West  the  broadest  territory.  But 
who  will  chide  me  for  loving  the  land  of  Dixie  best. 

I  love  it  best  because  it  is  my  native  land.  I  believe  not  in 
sectional  lines,  but  in  sectional  patriotism  which  loves  home 
better  than  any  other  spot  on  earth.  I  would  despise  the  Yankee 
who  does  not  love  the  rocks  and  hills  of  New  England  better 
than  all  the  roses  and  palms  and  dreamy  landscapes  of  the  whole 
South.  I  would  loathe  the  Westerner  who  does  not  believe  that 
sixteen  pounds  of  silver  is  as  good  as  one  pound  of  gold,  es- 
pecially if  he  owns  a  silver  mine. 

But  I  love  the  land  of  Dixie  best.  There  the  mocking  bird 
warbles  his  sweetest  song  and  the  darkies  still  sing  their  old 
time  melodies  and  hunt  the  'possum  and  the  coon.  There 
the  queenly  peach  flushes  with  crimson  when  the  sun  doth  kiss 
her  cheek,  and  by  her  side  the  princely  apple  glows  with  deepest 
red ;  and  there  the  orange  and  the  magnolia  bloom  except  when 
blighted  by  a  frost  from  the  land  of  Yankee  Doodle.  There  the 
pear  and  the  plum  and  the  cherry  and  every  kind  of  berry  bend 
bough  and  bush  like  showers  of  ruby  and  of  pearl.  There  the 
hills  are  festooned  with  tangling  vines  embossed  with  purple 
grapes  that  hang  in  clusters  like  a  million  crystal  globes  filled 
with  blushing  wine,  and  bananas  with  melting  pulp  of  honey, 
and  pineapples  within  whose  purplish  cones  cool  fountains  of 


DIXIE  163 

delicious  juices  flow.  There  are  cantaloupes  yielding  luscious 
meats  of  salmon  hue,  and  huge  watermelons  with  pulps  of  deep 
carnation  flowing  with  glory-hallelujah.  PomegTanates  hang 
like  ruddy  moons  and  lemons  like  golden  globes,  and  sometimes 
a  "nigger"  hangs,  away  down  South  in  Dixie. 

I  would  not  be  offensively  sectional,  but  God  has  made  the 
South  the  best.  He  has  poured  out  his  floods  of  sunshine  upon 
her  valleys  and  dimpled  her  green  hills  with  shadowy  coves, 
where  gay  birds  flutter  and  sing  and  bright  waters  ripple  in  eter- 
nal melody.  The  sun  rises  on  Yankee  Doodle  and  sets  on  the 
West,  but  he  is  at  the  full  meridian  of  his  glory,  away  down 
South  in  Dixie. 

When  Columbus  dropped  anchor  in  the  tropic  sea,  and  the 
new  world  loomed  full  on  his  view,  he  little  dreamed  that  he 
had  discovered  the  frontier  of  the  beautiful  land  of  Dixie. 

I  think  if  he  had  anchored  in  sight  of  the  frozen  shores  of 
Yankee  Doodle  he  would  have  immediately  shifted  sails  and 
made  a  bee  line  for  Spain,  and  there,  on  bended  knees,  declared 
to  the  astonished  Isabella  that  he  had  discovered  the  Korth  Pole, 
and  that  it  wore  sidewhiskers  and  spectacles.  When  Cortez 
and  De  Soto  entered  the  wilderness  of  America,  throbbing  with 
gaudy  wings  and  ringing  with  wild  music,  no  wonder  they 
dreamed  of  the  El  Dorado,  whose  sands  were  gold  and  whose 
pebbles  were  precious  stones.  They  were  exploring  the  beautiful 
land  of  Dixie.  I  think  if  they  had  dropped  anchor  in  Buzzard's 
Bay,  when  the  immortal  Joseph  Jefferson  was  in  his  prime,  he 
would  have  greeted  them  there  with  his  famous  toast,  "Here's  to 
your  good  health  and  your  families — may  you  all  live  long  and 
prosper,"  and  they  would  have  abandoned  their  search  for  the 
El  Dorado  and  baited  their  hooks  with  gold  bugs  and  wasted 
their  lives  angling  for  silversides,  as  the  sage  of  Gray  Gables  now 
angles. 

Ponce  de  Leon,  alias  "Pontha-daily-o^\^l,"  searched  for  the 
fountain  of  youth  away  down  South  in  Dixie.  I  think  he  found 
it,  for  down  among  the  bananas  and  oranges  at  St.  Augustine, 
in  Florida,  there  is  a  monument  to  his  memory.  It  is  the  Hotel 
"Pontha-daily-o\\Ti,"  where  the  sickly  sons  and  daughters  of 
Yankee  Doodle  now  restore  their  youth  at  ten  dollars  a  "pontha" 
and  fifty  dollars  a  "daily-own."    The  fountain  of  youth  is  surely 


164  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

there,  for  a  native  told  me  he  was  riding  along  one  morning  and 
he  saw  the  oldest  looking  man  on  earth  standing  in  the  chimney 
comer  crying.  He  said  he  asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  and 
the  old  fellow  said  his  father  had  whipped  him  for  "sassin'  "  his 
grandfather. 

Dixie  is  the  richest  country  in  the  world.  Her  sugar  planta- 
tions are  rich  enough  to  sweeten  the  tooth  of  Yankee  Doodle  for 
a  thousand  years,  bounty  or  no  bounty.  She  is  rimmed  and 
ribbed  with  inexhaustible  mines  of  ore  that  have  never  been 
touched  by  the  miner's  pick  nor  jarred  by  his  dynamite.  And 
she  is  skirted  with  primeval  forests  of  timber  trees  that  lift 
their  lofty  tops  among  the  clouds  and  crowd  each  other  for 
hundreds  of  miles  in  one  continuous  park  where  the  axe  haa 
never  gleamed. 

Yankee  Doodle  may  boast  that  the  aurora  borealis  is  only  the 
reflection  of  the  fires  of  her  furnaces  and  factories,  but  the  shoot- 
ing stars  are  only  the  shadows  of  the  race  horses  of  Tennessee 
and  Kentucky,  and  the  milky  way  is  but  the  picture  on  the 
sky  of  the  cotton  fields  of  Dixie. 

Great  and  mighty  is  the  Niagara  of  Yankee  Doodle,  which 
leaps  from  its  lofty  precipice  and  roars  like  an  eternal  storm,  but 
there  is  a  river  whose  volume  is  mightier  than  a  thousand 
Niagaras  and  w^hose  waters  are  as  warm  as  a  summer's  day.  It 
flows  noiseless  as  the  sunlight  for  more  than  three  thousand 
miles  through  the  cold  and  turbulent  waters  of  the  ocean,  waft- 
ing upon  its  miraculous  current  warmth  and  health  and  life  to 
half  the  world.  It  weaves  for  England  a  chaplet  of  verdure  and 
flowers,  it  crowns  green  Erin  with  the  shamrock  and  the  rose, 
and  flings  a  mantle  of  perpetual  beauty  on  the  vine-clad  hills 
of  France.  Its  soft  airs  linger  about  the  Orkney  Isles  and  make 
them  a  cluster  of  sunny  jewels  in  the  midst  of  inhospitable 
northern  seas.  And,  still  bearing  in  its  bosom  that  kindlier 
nature  born  of  brigliter  climes,  it  breathes  in  mercy  on  shores 
that  touch  the  frozen  zone. 

It  is  the  wondrous  Gulf  Stream,  the  vehicle  of  the  sun's  life- 
giving  power,  that  rolls  out  in  majesty  from  the  Southern  shore 
of  Dixie. 

1^0  wonder  the  invincible  armies  of  the  North  argued  so  elo- 
quently with  the  sword  to  prevent  the  divorce  of  Dixie  from 


DIXIE 


t6i 


this  Union.  For  as  unto  the  crown  the  jewels  are,  so  unto  the 
Nation  is  Dixie.  She  is  the  red  and  white  of  the  American 
flag,  and  some  of  the  blue.  She  is  the  dimple  in  the  cheek 
of  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and  most  of  the  cheek.  She  is  the 
diamond  pin  in  the  shirt  bosom  of  Yankee  Doodle. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  the  ISTew  South.  There  is  no  l^sTew  South. 
Whoever  heard  of  a  new  North  or  a  new  West?  We  are  not 
ashamed  of  the  old  South.  We  are  not  ashamed  of  the  grandest 
race  of  men  and  women  who  ever  lived  on  the  earth  and  who 
were  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  old  South. 

We  are  not  ashamed  of  Mt.  Vernon  and  Monticello  and  the 
Hermitage — we  are  not  ashamed  of  Shiloh  and  Mission  Ridge 
and  Chickamauga  and  Murfreesboro  and  Atlanta  and  Gettys- 
burg. We  are  not  ashamed  of  the  history  of  the  old  South. 
There  is  no  New  South.  It  is  the  old  South  resurrected  from 
the  dead  with  the  prints  of  the  nails  still  in  its  hands  and  the 
scar  of  the  spear  still  in  its  side. 

The  blood  of  chivalry  still  runs  in  the  veins  of  its  people 
and  may  God  forbid  that  there  ever  shall  be  a  New  South.  The 
virtue  and  honor  and  courage  of  tlie  old  South  are  good  enough 
for  me. 

There  are  new  elements  of  Southern  civilization,  just  as 
there  are  new  elements  in  the  civilizations  of  the  North  and 
the  West.  The  emancipation  of  the  negi-o  race  has  illuminated 
the  South  with  the  modern  colored  gentlemen,  just  as  the  eman- 
cipation of  muscle  has  adorned  the  North  and  the  West  with  the 
immortal  names  of  Sullivan  and  Corbett.  But  I  am  loath  to 
believe  that  Sullivan  is  an  improvement  on  Daniel  Webster  or 
that  Corbett  outshines  Abraham  Lincoln.  And  I  fear  that  the 
modem  colored  gentleman  has  thrown  but  little  light  on  the 
labor  problem  of  the  South,  for  as  soon  as  he  begins  to  learn 
"hie,  haec,  hoc,"  it's  goodbye  "gee,  whoa,  haw,  buck." 

I  know  that  there  are  new  elements  of  civilization,  but  I 
doubt  if  the  world  will  ever  see  another  civilization  as  brilliant 
as  that  which  perished  with  the  downfall  of  slavery. 

Where  is  the  old-time  Southerner  who  would  banish  it  from 
his  memory  ?  Slavery  is  dead,  and  I  thank  God  for  it,  but  I 
never  shall  forget  the  visions  I  have  seen  of  the  cotton  fields. 


l66  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

stretching  away  to  the  horizon,  alive  with  toiling  negroes,  who 
sang  as  they  toiled  from  early  morn  till  close  of  day. 

I  never  shall  forget  the  white-columned  mansions  rising  in 
cool,  spreading  groves,  where  the  roses  bloomed,  and  the  orange 
trees  waved  their  sprays  of  sno^vy  blossoms,  and  the  gay  palms 
shook  their  feathery  plumes. 

I  have  seen  pomp  and  pride  revel  in  banquet  halls  and  feast 
on  the  luxuries  of  every  zone.  I  have  heard  the  soft,  voluptuous 
swell  of  music,  where  youth  and  jeweled  beauty  swayed  and 
floated  in  the  mazes  of  the  misty  dance  under  glittering  chan- 
deliers. There  I  have  seen  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  plantation, 
mounted  on  their  thoroughbreds,  fleet  as  the  wind,  dash  away 
and  vanish  like  phantoms  in  the  forest  in  pursuit  of  the  fleeing 
fox,  where  the  music  of  the  running  hounds  rose  and  fell  and 
fell  and  rose  from  hill  to  hollow  and  from  hollow  to  hill  like 
the  chiming  of  a  thousand  bells.  Cotton  was  king  and  sat  upon 
the  ebony  throne  of  slavery.  Every  day  was  a  link  in  the  golden 
chain  of  pleasure.  It  was  a  superb  civilization  which  produced 
statesmen  the  peers  of  Webster  and  Seward  and  Sumner,  ora- 
tors more  eloquent  than  Everett  or  Wendell  Phillips,  and  soldiers 
as  great  as  ever  marched  to  battle. 

The  negro  quarters  around  the  mansion  were  lighted  by 
night  with  bonfires  and  the  hills  resounded  with  the  music  of 
the  banjo  and  the  fiddle,  and  the  merry  songs  and  laughter  of 
the  older  darkies,  as  they  circled  around  the  dusky  young 
dancers,  and  whiled  away  the  long  summer  evenings. 

I  have  heard  them  play  and  sing  until  the  very  stars  seemed 
to  twinkle  to  their  music.  I  have  seen  them  dance  until  the 
smoke  and  flame  of  the  bonfires  swung  corners  with  the  moon- 
beams in  the  air.  I  have  heard  them  laugh  till  the  big  ripe 
ears  of  corn  grinned  through  the  shuck  and  the  trees  shook  with 
laughter  till  they  shed  their  leaves.  I  have  heard  them  preach 
till  the  earth  trembled. 

A  pompous  old  planter  walked  into  the  mansion  one  bright 
morning  and  preferred  charges  against  Uncle  Rastus  for  lar- 
ceny. His  poultry  yard  had  been  raided  and  there  wasn't  a 
chicken  left  on  the  roost  to  tell  the  tale.  The  track  of  the  thief 
corresponded  with  Uncle  Rastus'  l^o.  14  shoe,  and  there  was 
hurrying  to  and  fro  and  great  excitement  among  the  darkies. 


DIXIE  167 

The  penalty  in  such  cases  was  thirty-nine  lashes.  The  overseer 
came  forward  and  tested  his  whip  by  popping  it  in  the  air  a  few 
times  and  Rastus  cut  the  pigeon  wing  behind  his  old  mistress. 
His  young  master,  just  home  from  law  school,  pushed  through 
the  crowd  of  frightened  darkies  demanded  a  fair  trial  for 
Uncle  Rastus.  The  pompous  old  neighbor  good-naturedly  agreed 
to  sit  as  judge  with  the  old  master  in  the  case,  and  the  faces 
of  the  two  old  judges  beamed  with  admiration  as  the  young 
la^vyer  summed  up  the  evidence  in  his  masterly  argument. 
There  were  sobs  from  the  old  black  mammy  and  the  young 
mistress  as  he  pointed  to  the  gray  hairs  of  his  weeping  old  client 
and  alluded  to  the  precious  memories  of  the  past  when  the  old 
man  had  carried  him  on  his  back  and  entertained  him  with  his 
stories  and  his  songs.  The  two  old  judges  looked  at  each  other 
and  nodded  when  the  young  Demosthenes  held  up  a  'possum  and 
said,  "May  it  please  the  court,  here  is  the  well-filled  thief;  this 
is  the  grinning  robber,  this  rusty-tailed  terror  of  the  chicken 
roost.  Pass  judgment  upon  him,  sentence  him  to  death,  and 
I  promise  that  before  tomorrow's  sun  shall  rise  Uncle  Rastus 
will  execute  the  judgment  of  the  court  and  send  him  to  that 
bourne  from  which  no  'possum  has  ever  returned." 

At  the  close  of  this  overwhelming  appeal  the  two  old  judges 
declared  him  innocent  of  the  charge  and  pronounced  the  sen- 
tence of  death  upon  the  head  of  the  'possum. 

Uncle  Rastus  smacked  his  lips  and  disappeared  behind  the 
corncrib  in  charge  of  the  condemned  prisoner.  The  young  law- 
yer followed  the  old  darky  and  chucked  him  in  the  side  and 
said,  "Uncle  Rastus,  I  have  cleared  you,  and  now  I  want  to 
know  the  truth — did  you  or  did  you  not  steal  those  chickens  ?" 

"Well,  marster,  I'll  tell  you  de  trufe — I  always  had  de  im- 
pression dat  I  'liminated  dem  chickens  tell  I  heard  yo'  speech." 
And  he  mounted  his  mule,  rejoicing  over  his  deliverance  from 
the  whippingpost,  and  he  went  to  the  field  singing 

"King  David,  play  on  yo'  harp — halle-Iu. 
Halle-lu-jah,  King  David,  play  on  yo'  harp,  halle-lu." 

Another  pillar  of  the  old-time  Southern  civilization  was 
th«  old-time  plantation  mule,  who  could  buck  like  a  broncho 
and  kick  a  hole  in  the  universe. 


I 68  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

The  dinner  horn  tooted  one  bright  summer  day  and  there 
was  rejoicing  in  the  cotton  field.  A  fragrant  old  darkey  said  to 
his  son,  "Ephraham,  git  on  dat  mule  and  ride  him  to  de  house." 
^'Excuse  me,  fodder,"  replied  Ephraim,  "dat  mule  flung  me  over 
a  apple  tree  yis-tiddy  and  I  isn't  a-gwyne  to  have  any  more  con- 
gulgions  wid  'im."  "Oh,  well,  den,  stan'  back,  yo'  ole  daddy  can 
ride  him ;  I  'spise  to  see  a  nigger  afeard  of  a  mule,"  and  the  old 
man  mounted.  The  mule  threw  himself  into  the  shape  of  a 
rainbow  and  gave  a  few  bucks.  The  old  man  shot  into  the  air 
and  came  down  with  a  crash.  His  head  plowed  the  ground  like 
a  shell  from  a  Krupp  gun  and  he  got  up  rubbing  the  dirt  out  of 
his  eyes  and  nose,  and  said,  "Now,  you  see,  my  son,  dat's  de  way 
— whenever  you  see  he's  a-gwyne  a-throw  you  jist  git  off." 

And  thus  the  enjoyments  and  wealth  and  glory  of  the  impe- 
rial white  masters,  and  the  songs  and  sermons  and  mirth  and 
merriment  of  the  slaves  mingled  together  like  the  joyous  waters 
of  a  sparkling  river. 

The  outside  world  can  never  know  the  true  relation  of  master 
and  slave.  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  was  an  indictment  of  the 
many  for  the  cruelties  of  a  few.  It  was  a  novel  which  inflated 
mole  hills  into  mountains.  There  were  cruelties  almost  as  heart- 
less as  the  cruelties  of  'New  England  when  the  witches  were 
burned  at  the  stake,  but  they  were  exceptions  to  the  rule.  The 
master  was  kind  to  his  slaves,  and  history  does  not  record  such 
devotion  as  that  which  was  exhibited  by  the  slave  himself  when 
he  stood  guard  at  the  door  by  night  and  worked  in  the  field  by 
day,  to  protect  and  feed  the  white  women  and  children  of  the 
South  while  his  master  was  far  away  on  the  battle  field,  fighting 
for  the  perpetuation  of  slavery. 

Let  me  whisper  again  in  the  ear  of  Yankee  Doodle:  The 
South  taught  this  benighted  race  faith  in  the  living  God,  and 
I  believe  they  will  yet  bear  the  gospel  of  Christ  to  Africa  and 
wake  the  dark  continent  from  the  slumber  of  ages. 

Not  long  ago  I  buried  one  of  the  last  of  our  old  family  dar- 
kies. He  had  been  a  preacher  for  fifty  years.  W^hen  I  was  a 
child  he  often  led  me,  together  with  my  brothers,  to  his  meet- 
ings. He  had  never  learned  the  art  of  reading.  But  many  a 
time  have  I  seen  him  rise  in  the  pulpit  and  say :  "My  conger- 
gashun,  you'll  find  my  text  somewhar  'twixt  de  lids  of  de  Bible 


DIXIE  169 

whar  it  reads,  'Yo  must  be  born  agan  and  agan.'  "    And  then  he 
would  warm  up  with  his  theme  until  he  plunged  out  far  beyond 
the  ratiocination  of  man.     During  the  last  twenty  years  of 
his  life  he  made  sight  drafts  upon  my  treasury  and  my  ward- 
robe, just  as  thousands  of  old-time  darkies  still  make  drafts 
upon  their  former  masters  in  the  South,  and  they  are  always 
honored.     When  I  was  a  candidate,  Uncle  Rufus  was  a  Demo- 
crat.    When  my  brother  was  a  candidate,  he  was  a  Republican, 
When  we  were  candidates  against  each  other,  he  was  neutral. 
The  old  man  came  one  evening  and  sat  with  me  in  the  twilight 
under  the  trees,  and  our  minds  wandered  back  together  to  the 
happy  days  of  the  past  when  he  was  a  slave  and  I  was  a  bare- 
footed boy.     He  reviewed  many  a  ghost  story  he  used  to  tell  us 
in  the  firelight  around  the  hearthstone  of  his  cabin  in  the  happy 
long  ago.    And  there  was  many  a  joke  and  jest  and  merry  peal 
of  laughter.     But  as  the  shadows  thickened  around  us  the  old 
darkey  grew  serious.     He  spoke  tenderly  of  my  father   and 
mother,  and  his  old  wife,  and  all  the  old  folks  who  had  gone 
before.     With  tearful  eyes  he  left  me.     But  he  paused  as  he 
departed,  and  leaned  upon  his  staff  and  said : 

"You  may  not  see  me  again.  I  has  had  two  visions  of  de 
chariot  of  de  Lord  descending  from  heaven  to  bear  me  away. 
The  next  time  it  comes  your  Uncle  Rufus  is  a-gAvyne  home." 
And  as  he  hobbled  away  in  the  darkness  I  thought  I  heard  a 
song: 

"Swing  low  sweet  chariot,  coming  for  to  carry  me  home. 
Swing  low  sweet  chariot — coming  for  to  carry  me  home." 

I  never  saw  him  again.  Before  a  week  had  passed  the 
chariot  swung  low,  the  faithful  old  servant  stepped  in,  and  was 
caught  up  into  heaven. 

As  I  looked  upon  him  for  the  last  time,  with  the  dews  of 
life's  evening  condensing  on  his  brow  and  the  shadows  of  death 
falling  around  him,  his  simple  words  of  faith  in  God  were  more 
beautiful  to  me  than  the  most  impassioned  eloquence  that  ever 
fell  from  the  lips  of  the  brilliant  Ingersoll. 

The  time  will  come  when  the  South  will  build  a  monimient 

to  the  old-time  black  man-servant  for  his  fidelity  and  devotion 
(11) 


170  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

to  his  master,  and  to  the  old-time  black  mammy  for  the  lullabies 
she  has  simg. 

But  these  relations  have  been  severed.  The  hurricane  of 
civil  war  fell  upon  the  land.  The  ebony  throne  of  slavery  was 
swept  away,  the  white-columned  mansions  were  shattered  by 
shot  and  shell,  and  billions  of  wealth  dissolved  and  vanished 
in  flame  and  smoke.  The  Union  staggered,  the  century  reeled. 
The  South  lost  all,  but  the  purest  and  proudest  type  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race  stood  erect  and  defiant  amid  its  charred  and  black- 
ened ruins,  the  flower  of  his  country  dead  at  his  feet,  the  earth 
red  beneath  him,  the  skies  black  above  him.  His  sword  was 
broken,  his  country  crushed ;  but  without  a  throne  he  was 
no  less  a  ruler.  Though  his  palace  had  perished,  he  was  no  less 
a  king.  Magnificent  in  the  gloom  of  defeat,  he  was  still  a  master. 
Has  he  not  mastered  poverty  ?  Has  he  not  triumphed  over  ad- 
versity and  rebuilt  the  ruined  South  ? 

Look  at  Atlanta,  rising  like  a  seraph  from  the  dying  embers 
of  war,  and  Knoxville  spreading  her  wings  among  the  mountains, 
and  iNashville  enthroned  amid  her  great  universities  and  col- 
leges. 

Go  and  stand  upon  the  crown  of  old  Lookout  Mountain  and 
look  down  upon  Chattanooga,  blooming  in  the  battle  field  below 
like  a  fresh  and  beautiful  flower  blossoming  in  the  huge  foot- 
print of  death. 

If  our  stricken  people  had  sat  down  in  despair  at  the  sepul- 
chre of  their  dead  there  would  now  be  no  thrifty  Birmingham, 
the  miracle  almost  of  a  day ;  Richmond  on  the  James  would  be 
only  a  sorrowful  memory,  and  Memphis  would  lie  dead  on  the 
bank  of  the  Mississippi  like  the  crumbled  ruins  of  ancient 
Memphis. 

But  money  is  mightier  than  the  sword,  brains  are  better  than 
bullets,  and  we  are  winning  back  the  prestige  and  glory  of  the 
old  South — not  with  the  weapons  of  war,  but  with  the  keen- 
edged  implements  of  peace. 

I  speak  for  the  South  when  I  say  that  we  are  tired  of  the 
criminations  and  recriminations  of  the  grave  and  reverend  luna- 
tic about  the  war,  and  Southern  outrage,  and  the  negro  problem. 
We  have  grown-up  men,  high  in  church  and  state,  learned  in 
letters,  the  fathers  of  families,  and  with  fortunes  already  made. 


DIXIE  171 

who  cannot  remember  the  war.  Southern  outrage  is  the  inven- 
tion of  buzzard  orators,  phthisicy  lecturers  and  politicians,  to 
keep  the  two  sections  of  our  country  apart.  There  is  no  negro 
problem,  except  as  to  how  we  shall  improve  his  condition  and 
make  him  a  better  citizen.  It  is  the  gold  and  silver  problem 
which  confronts  us  all,  white  and  black.  It  is  the  iron  and 
coal  problem,  the  cotton  problem,  the  grain  and  stock  problem, 
the  manufacturing  problem,  and  the  educational  problem. 

There  is  only  one  race  problem  which  is  engaging  our 
thought  and  our  energy,  and  that  is  the  race  between  Yankee 
Doodle  and  Dixie  for  industrial  supremacy,  and  we  are  solving 
that  problem  with  muscle  and  sweat  and  money  and  brains. 

Yankee  Doodle  may  smile  and  think  it  not  much  of  a  race, 
but  I  warn  them  to  keep  their  spurs  in  the  flank  and  their  eyes 
on  the  wire,  for  as  sure  as  the  Lord  reigneth,  who  built  the 
chained  mountains  of  iron  and  buried  the  measureless  beds  of 
coal  in  Dixie,  the  rival  they  despise  today  will  show  them  a  clean 
pair  of  heels  tomorrow. 

We  will  distance  them  on  the  home  stretch  as  effectually  as 
the  old  Rebel  soldier  once  distanced  the  Yankees.  His  horse's 
name  was  Bill  and  he  said  he  was  the  fastest  "boss"  in  Mor- 
gan's Cavalry,  and  he  kept  him  for  "prudential"  reasons.  He 
saddled  old  Bill  and  rode  out  beyond  the  lines  one  day  on  a 
foraging  expedition.  And  all  at  once  he  said  he  saw  the  Yan- 
kees coming.  They  opened  fire  on  him  and  he  wheeled  and 
called  on  Bill  to  "git  out  of  the  wilderness."  But  he  couldn't 
get  him  out  of  a  lope,  and  he  said  he  thought  it  was  the  slowest 
lope  he  ever  saw  in  his  life.  He  popped  both  spurs  into  Bill  and 
calarruped  him  with  his  sword,  but  Bill  wouldn't  go  out  of  a 
lope.  The  old  fellow  got  away  from  the  Yankees,  he  knew  not 
how,  and  rode  safely  into  camp.  But  he  said  he  got  to  studying 
about  it  that  night  (Bill  had  never  gone  back  on  him  before)  and 
he  went  back  next  day  and  measured  and  Bill  had  jumped  forty- 
two  feet  every  jump. 

Yankee  Doodle  may  think  Dixie  is  only  going  in  a  lope, 
but  she's  jumping  forty-two  feet  every  jump. 

But  I  trust  in  God  that  the  rivalries  of  the  future  will  be 
the  struggles  of  peace  and  not  of  war.     The  hand  of  secession 


172  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

will  never  be  lifted  up  again.  The  danger  now  lies  on  the  other 
side  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line. 

The  mailed  hand  of  centralized  power  is  reaching  too  far 
across  the  lines  of  states.  The  red  hand  of  anarchy  too  often 
threatens  with  the  torch.  Gold  plays  too  deep  and  strong  a  part. 
If  the  Eepublic  ever  falls  it  will  fall  as  Caesar  fell,  under  the 
dome  of  the  National  Capitol,  and  the  bloody  hands  of  its  own 
Brutus  and  Cassius  will  brandish  the  smoking  daggers.  If  that 
dark  day  shall  ever  come,  the  South  will  be  the  Antony  to 
snatch  liberty  from  the  clutches  of  treason. 

If  you  ask  me  why  the  South  will  be  the  Antony,  I  answer : 
It  is  the  only  section  which  has  the  pure  American  blood.  I 
answer  that  anarchy  cannot  live  on  Southern  soil.  They  will 
make  its  neck  pop  like  a  new  saddle  with  the  same  rope  that 
breaks  the  necks  of  the  despoilers  of  their  homes. 

Let  us  all  strive  to  preserve  the  harmony  of  the  sections 
and  the  equilibrium  of  the  Government.  Sectional  patriotism 
is  glorious,  but  sectional  hatred  is  and  always  has  been  the 
lion  in  the  pathway  of  our  national  progress. 

Mason  and  Dixon's  line  is  still  there,  but  it  is  no  longer 
the  yawning  chasm  of  death  which  once  swallowed  up  the  best 
and  bravest  of  all  the  sections. 

Time  has  closed  its  bloody  lips  and  now  it  is  the  red  scar  of 
honor  across  the  breast  of  the  Republic  which  marks  the  unity  of 
our  once  divided  country. 

Time  has  furled  the  battle  flags  and  smelted  the  hostile  guns. 
Time  has  torn  down  the  forts  and  leveled  the  trenches  and  rifle 
pits  on  the  bloody  field  of  glory,  where  courage  and  highborn 
chivalry  on  prancing  chargers  once  proudly  rode  the  front  with 
shimmering  epaulets  and  bright  swords  gleaming;  where  thou- 
sands of  charging  bayonets  at  uniform  angles  reflected  thou- 
sands of  suns ;  where  the  shrill  fife  screamed  and  the  kettledrum 
timed  the  heavy  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  the  shining  batallions 
as  the  infantry  deployed  into  battle  line  and  disappeared  in  the 
seething  waves  of  smoke  and  flame;  where  double-shotted  bat- 
teries unlimbered  on  the  bristling  edge  of  battle,  and  hurled 
their  fiery  vomit  into  the  faces  of  the  reeling  columns;  where 
ten  thousand  drawn  sabres  flashed  and  ten  thousand  cavalry 


DIXIE  173 

hovered  for  a  moment  on  the  flank  and  then  rushed  to  the  dread- 
ful revelry. 

The  curtain  has  dropped  long  ago  upon  these  mournful 
scenes  of  carnage,  and  time  has  beautified  and  comforted  and 
healed  until  there  is  nothing  left  of  war  but  graves  and  gar- 
lands and  monuments  and  precious  memories. 

Blow !  bugle,  blow !  but  thy  shrillest  notes  can  never  again 
call  the  matchless  armies  of  Grant  and  Lee  to  the  carnival  of 
death. 

Let  the  silver  trumpets  sound  the  jubilee  of  peace  and  rend 
the  air  with  the  music  of  Yankee  Doodle.  Let  the  veterans  shout 
who  wore  the  blue.  Let  them  kiss  the  silken  folds  of  the  gor- 
geous ensign  of  the  Republic  and  fling  it  to  the  breeze  and  sing 
the  N^ational  hymn: 

"Oh,  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave." 

Let  the  veterans  bow  who  wore  the  gray  and  with  uncovered 
heads  salute  the  ISTational  flag.  It  is  the  flag  of  the  inseparable 
Union.  Let  them  clasp  hands  with  the  brave  men  who  wore 
the  blue  and  rejoice  with  them,  for  time  hath  adorned  the 
ruined  South  and  robed  her  fields  in  richer  harvests  and  gilded 
her  skies  with  brighter  stars  of  hope. 

But  who  will  scorn  or  frown  to  see  the  veterans  of  hei 
shattered  armies,  scattered  now  like  solitary  oaks  in  the  midst 
of  a  fallen  harvest,  hoary  with  age  and  covered  with  scars,  some 
times  put  on  the  old,  worn  and  faded  gray,  and  unfurl  for  a 
little  while  that  other  banner,  the  riddled  and  blood-stained  stars 
and  bars.  To  look  upon  it  and  weep  over  it  and  press  it  to  their 
bosoms,  for  it  is  hallowed  with  recollections  touching  as  the  sol- 
dier's last  tear  on  the  white  bosom  of  his  manhood's  bride,  tender 
as  his  last  farewell. 

They  followed  it  amid  the  earthquake-throes  of  Shiloh, 
where  Albert  Sydney  Johnston  died.  They  followed  it  amid  the 
floods  of  living  fire  at  Chancellorsville,  where  Stonewall  Jack- 
son fell.  They  saw  it  flutter  in  the  gloom  of  the  wilderness, 
where  the  angry  divisions  and  corps  rushed  upon  each  other  and 
clinched  and  fell  and  rolled  together  in  the  bloody  mire. 


174  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

They  rallied  around  it  at  Gettysburg,  where  it  waved  above 
the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed  on  those  dread  heights  of  des- 
tiny. 

They  saw  its  faded  colors  flout  defiance  for  the  last  time  at 
Appomattox,  and  then  go  do^vn  forever  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

Then  who  will  upbraid  them  if  they  sometimes  bring  it  to 
the  light,  sanctified  and  glorified  as  it  is  by  the  blood  and  tears 
of  the  past,  and  wave  it  again  in  the  air  and  sing  once  more 
their  old  war  song: 

"Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Southern  rights  hurrah ! 
Hurrah  for  the  bonnie  bUie  flag  that  bears  a  single  star." 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR 

One  bright  summer  morning,  when  I  was  a  barefooted  coun- 
try boy,  I  stole  my  mother's  washbowl  and  my  father's  new 
clay  pipe  out  into  the  back  yard  and  blew  soap  bubbles  in  the 
air.  As  they  floated  away  in  the  sunlight,  reflecting  in  irides- 
cent colors  the  images  of  earth  and  sky,  I  could  not  restrain 
a  yell  of  delight,  for  I  imagined  I  was  creating  a  universe  of 
worlds  and  sending  them  out  into  space  all  aglow  with  ineffable 
beauty.  I  dreamed  I  saw  castles  of  gold  in  their  emerald  groves 
and  bright  wings  cleaving  their  crystal  airs.  I  dreamed  I  saw 
countless  sails  on  their  far-away  summer  seas,  and  in  the 
ecstasy  of  my  dream  I  pulled  off  my  cap  and  shouted  for  joy  as 
the  glories  of  each  new  bubble  fell  upon  my  eyes. 

But  when  I  broke  the  washbowl  and  felt  the  tropical  strokes 
of  my  mother's  slipper  on  the  equator  of  my  anatomy  as  I  laid 
on  her  lap  with  my  face  do^vnward,  my  dream  exploded  amid 
the  splash  of  soapsuds  and  the  wreck  of  worlds,  and  there  was 
a  hot  time  in  the  back  yard  that  day.  But  pity  followed  her 
wrath  as  the  dew  follows  the  burning  heat  of  the  sun,  and,  with 
a  mother's  love,  which  so  soon  forgives,  she  took  me  in  her 
loving  arms  and  brushed  away  my  tears  and  pressed  me  to  her 
throbbing  heart;  and,  sobbing  there,  I  fell  asleep. 

Little  did  I  then  dream  that  this  childish  experience  was 
the  symbol  of  all  human  life ;  for  do  we  not  blow  soap  bubbles 
and  break  washbowls  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave  ?  l^ow  while 
I  blow  a  few  tonight  for  your  amusement  and  entertainment, 
if  it  shall  be  my  misfortime  to  break  the  washbowl  of  your 
patience  and  waste  my  soapsuds  on  the  desert  air,  I  trust  that 
these  ugly  men  who  have  come  here  under  duress  will  suffer  in 
silence,  and  that  the  ladies — God  bless  them! — will  spare  the 
slipper  and  in  pity  press  me  to  their  loving  hearts. 

Then  lend  me  your  ears,  as  the  fox  said  to  the  goose,  and  I 
will  bear  you  away  in  triumph  and  make  your  feathers  fly  and 
your  bones  bleach  in  my  den  of  dreams.  Is  not  human  life  a 
den  of  dreams  full  of  goose  feathers  and  bleaching  bones  ?  Is 
not  the  human  brain  a  bucket  in  a  well  of  dreams? 


178  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

Let  me  tell  you  a  story  of  Uncle  Rastiis  and  his  philosophy 
of  Br'er  'Possum  and  Br'er  Wolf  as  he  unwound  it  to  a  bare- 
footed boy  down  in  his  cabin  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.     He  said : 

"Br'er  'Possum  went  to  de  well  to  git  him  a  drink  uv  water. 
It  wuz  one  uv  dese  here  kind  uv  wells  wid  a  pulley  over  it  an'  a 
chain  over  de  pulley,  wid  a  bucket  on  each  end,  so  dat  as  one 
bucket  went  down  de  udder  cum  up,  an'  vussey-visah.  Br'er 
'Possum  jumped  in  de  bucket  dat  wuz  up  to  git  him  a  drink,  an' 
lo  and  behold,  it  went  down  wid  'im ;  an'  dar  he  wuz  in  de  bot- 
tom uv  de  well,  a-paddlin'  around,  screamin'  fur  he'p. 

"Br'er  Wolf,  he  trotted  down  to  de  well  to  git  him  a  drink, 
an'  he  heerd  Br'er  'Possum  a-yellin',  an'  he  peep  down  in  de 
well  an'  ax  Br'er  'Possum  what  he's  doin'  down  dar. 

"  'Fishin' !'  Bre'er  'Possum  shouted  back.  'Dis  here  well's 
full  uv  fish,  Br'er  Wolf;  cum  down  here.'  So  Br'er  Wolf 
jumped  in  de  bucket  dat  wuz  up  an'  started  down.  Br'er  'Pos- 
sum, he  jumped  into  de  bucket  dat  wuz  down  in  de  well  an' 
started  up;  an'  as  he  passed  Br'er  Wolf  about  de  middle  uv 
de  well,  he  grinned  an'  said: 

"  'Ah !  Br'er  Wolf,  dis  world  goes  roun'  an'  round', 
An'  some  goes  up  an'  some  goes  down !' " 

What  a  splendid  illustration  of  the  dreams  of  men !  For 
whether  it  be  the  child  at  its  mother's  knee  or  the  man  of 
maturer  years, 

"The  world  goes  roun'  an'  roun', 

Sometimes  we're  up  an'  sometimes  we're  down." 

We  are  a  race  of  dreamers,  and  we  pass  from  the  miracle 
of  birth  to  the  miracle  of  death,  building  castles  in  the  air. 

We  build  them  not  of  granite  and  marble,  but  of  the  impon- 
derable materials  quarried  from  the  brain  and  the  heart,  and 
we  fashion  them  into  our  ideals  of  the  beautiful.  They  are  our 
dreams  of  happiness. 

We  are  the  inhabitants  of  two  worlds.  One  is  the  old,  mate- 
rial world,  which  is  the  home  and  heritage  of  our  bodies — the 
banquet  hall  of  the  senses,  in  whose  back  yard  of  sunshine  and 
shadow  we  blow  soap  bubbles  and  break  the  washbowl  of  Na- 


CASTLES    IN   THE  AIR  179 

ture's  laws  until  she  lays  us  across  her  lap  and  pounds  us  with 
her  avenging  slipper,  and  then,  at  last,  she  takes  us  gently  in 
her  loving  arms  and  we  fall  asleep  forever  on  her  bosom.  The 
other  is  the  dream  world  of  the  soul,  where  Love  wakes  and 
Hope  hangs  a  rainbow  on  the  cloud ;  where  Fancy  takes  wing 
and  Music  opens  the  windows  of  heaven ;  where  Science,  with 
golden  keys,  unlocks  the  doors  of  mystery  and  Art  unveils  the 
beautiful.  In  this  fantastic  world  of  dreams  all  human  progress 
begins,  all  civilizations  are  born.  In  its  fields  we  gather  every 
flower  of  sentiment  and  every  sheaf  of  thought,  and  out  of  it? 
hidden  mines  we  bring  the  jewels  of  discovery  and  invention  to 
adorn  the  soul  and  enrich  every  station  in  human  life.  In  it, 
wherever  we  turn,  the  angels  of  happiness  beckon  to  us  from 
every  horizon  of  light.  Their  wings  flutter  in  every  stream  of 
life  and  break  the  sunshine  into  stars.  They  dance  on  every 
hilltop  and  mountain  crest  of  promise,  and  we  pursue  their  van- 
ishing forms  through  many  a  wilderness  of  trouble,  where  the 
lions  and  tigers  of  passion  crouch  and  spring  and  where  frown- 
ing crags  of  peril  block  our  way ;  we  follow  them  through  many 
a  dark  and  dismal  swamp  of  sorrow,  spanning  chasms  of  doubt 
with  cables  of  hope  and  rivers  of  tears  with  bridges  of  dreams ; 
we  follow  them  through  all  the  myriad  paths  of  duty  and  en- 
deavor— paths  which  ever  and  anon  break  out  into  strange  and 
mysterious  lands  of  the  beautiful,  where,  footsore  and  weary, 
we  rest  in  some  sweet  castle  in  the  air.  It  may  be  a  dream  of 
childhood,  on  the  brink  of  the  river  of  Song,  where  no  blight 
ever  touches  the  blossoming  fields,  no  storm  ever  tosses  the  glit- 
tering tides.  It  may  be  a  dream  of  youth,  where  lazy  flocks 
bleat  and  browse  and  happy  birds  tangle  their  roundelays  with 
the  yodel  of  the  shepherd  boy  in  many  a  dusky  hollow  of  de- 
light, where  swirling  brooks  leap  from  faraway  purple  cliffs  of 
laughter  and  come  romping  and  frolicking  through  flowery 
meads  and  scented  groves  and  break  into  pearls  and  the  silvery 
foam  of  pleasure  at  our  feet.  It  may  be  a  dream  of  old  age, 
where  phantom  keels,  with  tinted  sails,  come  floating  down  to 
us  from  the  distant  Isle  of  Memory;  and  we  loiter  in  cooling 
shades  with  old  loves,  and  see  once  more  the  glorified  faces  of 
long  ago,  and  feel  the  touch  of  vanished  hands  and  the  rapturous 
thrill  of  kisses  from  lips  that  now  are  dust. 


l8o  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

And — O ! — one  feast  of  the  soul  in  the  blissful  Aidenn  of  a 
dream,  one  smile  that  parts  the  lips  of  Joy,  one  tear  that 
trembles  in  the  eye  of  Love,  one  swooning  note  from  the  river 
of  Song,  is  reward  enough  for  every  drop  of  sweat  that  trickles 
from  the  brow  of  Anguish  and  every  bloody  track  that  Suffering 
leaves  on  the  rugged  trail  of  life. 

Let  us  not  forget  that  Happiness  is  the  ultimate  object  of 
all  human  action,  and  that  Hope  and  Love  are  the  angels  that 
lead  us  on  toward  the  misty  summits  of  the  future.  And  are 
not  the  victories  worth  the  struggle  ? 

Who  would  not  press  through  the  piercing  thorns  of  strife 
to  pluck  a  flower  of  triumph !  Who  would  not  cross  swords  with 
Adversity  to  win  the  jeweled  hand  of  Fortune!  Who  would 
not  dare  the  desert  waste  of  death  to  taste  the  sweets  of  glory! 
Who  would  not  bear  the  burdens  and  heartaches  of  the  day  for 
one  evening  in  the  sacred  dream  castle  of  home,  where  the 
vestal  fires  of  virtue  burn  and  where  confiding  innocence  gives 
welcome  with  heaving  bosom  and  tender  arms ! 

Home,  sweet  home,  the  blessed  shrine  of  precious  memories ! 
The  very  word  rings  with  laughter  and  echoes  with  song.  It 
glows  with  love  and  breathes  the  name  of  mother,  the  sweetest 
name  ever  spoken  by  mortal  tongue.  Is  it  not  the  open  gate  of 
paradise  ?  Is  it  not  the  vestibule  of  heaven  ?  Is  it  not  glo- 
rious, after  all,  to  live  in  this  beautiful  world  and  face  the 
storms  that  rise  dark  o'er  the  way?  Does  not  the  burnished 
crest  of  the  cloud  reflect  in  golden  arcs  the  splendors  of  the 
sun?  And  do  not  the  angels  hang  a  rainbow  on  its  bosom? 
When  the  angry  furies  of  tempest  rush  out  from  the  vapory 
vaults  and  harness  their  thunder-clad  steeds  to  the  chariot  of 
the  winds,  does  not  Love  -whisper  on  the  Galilee  of  every 
troubled  heart:     "Peace,  be  still?" 

"WTien  Sin  and  Temptation  slip  into  the  paradise  of  the  heart 
and  break  the  spell  of  a  beautiful  dream,  does  not  Hope  lead 
us  into  the  Eden  of  another  dream  ?  Does  not  all  IN'ature  around 
us  glow  and  throb  with  dreams  ?  When  Winter  folds  his  tent 
of  snow  and  silently  steals  away,  O,  how  sweet  are  the  lips  of 
Spring!  I  have  seen  her  kiss  the  naked  earth,  and  the  hills 
shouted  for  joy  and  built  their  castles  of  leaf  and  tree  and 
flower,  and  the  valleys  woke  as  from  the  dead  and  put  on  gar- 


CASTLES    IN   THE   AIR  l8l 

ments  of  the  lily  and  the  rose.  There's  a  poem  in  the  garden 
when  the  tulips  drink  the  dew  and  the  crimson  poppies  blow; 
theres'  a  volume  of  romantic  beauty  in  the  woodlands  when 
the  wild  flowers  bloom ;  there  is  music  in  the  meadow  when  the 
chorus  of  a  thousand  larks,  on  thrilling  wing,  is  tangled  with 
the  passion  song  of  bobolink  in  the  purple  of  the  dawn. 

I  have  seen  the  world  turn  somersaults  of  joy  when  Summer 
touched  the  vernal  fields  and  turned  them  into  seas  of  sunset 
gold,  and  the  air  was  full  of  melody  and  the  forest  broke  out 
into  laughter  and  song,  and  everywhere  there  was  but  one  sweet 
story  told ;  it  was  the  old,  old  story  of  love.  I  heard  it  at  noon- 
tide when  the  redbird  turned  the  thicket  into  music  and  the 
oriole  warbled  to  his  mate  in  the  tree  top  as  they  built  their 
swinging  castle  in  the  air.  I  heard  it  where  the  mocking  bird 
chuckled  and  laughed  in  the  gathering  twilight  of  evening  and 
the  katydid  crooned  in  the  orchard  and  the  cricket  sang  on  the 
hearth,  and  there  was  the  laughter  of  happy  children  on  the 
lawn,  and  down  under  the  old  oak  tree  the  sweethearts  were 
swinging  and  singing: 

"Let  the  world  ebb,  let  the  world  flow 
Sweeter  the  hour,  sooner  to  go; 
Swing,  swing,  now  high,  now  low, 
Lazily,  dreamily  to  and  fro." 

And  there  was  the  sound  of  a  kiss  in  the  swing  as  they 
swung. 

"And  the  doves  in  the  old  oak  tree  overhead 

Cooed  and  billed,  and  billed  and  cooed ! 
And  Uncle  Rastus  kissed  Aunt  Dinah,  and  said 

He  was  sho'  hoodooed,  sho'  hoodooed ! " 

And  the  stars  came  out  on  the  balcony  of  heaven  and  winked 
at  the  man  in  the  moon. 

What  is  this  world  but  a  beautiful  swing,  where  all  the 
sweet  stories  of  love  are  told — a  shadowy  swing  full  of  laughter 
and  tears,  a  dreamy  old  swing  that  sweeps  between  two  eterni- 
ties pushed  by  the  hand  of  Destiny  ?  We  swing  out  of  darkness 
into  the  light,  and  then  into  darkness  again — 


1 82  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

"From  snowdrift  to  flower, 
From   sunshine   to   shower," 

through  the  changing  seasons  of  the  vanishing  years;  longing 
for  joys  that  will  never  come;  coveting  power  we  can  never 
reach ;  striving  for  glory  we  can  never  win ;  consumed  with 
ambition,  overwhelmed  with  desire,  delirious  with  passion,  and 
racked  with  pain ;  hoping  and  fearing,  sighing  and  dreaming, 
gathering  garlands  that  wither  and  die,  growing  weaker  and 
weaker  as  the  fatal  swing  sways  to  and  fro,  until  at  last  the 
candle  flickers  in  the  socket  and  shadows  and  silence  hover 
about  our  pillows,  the  dreams  of  life  dissolve,  and  tomorrow  a 
new  generation  will  laugh  and  weep  in  the  swing.  They  will 
come  into  the  world  as  we  came — helpless  and  ignorant,  won- 
dering at  the  mysteries  of  shape  and  substance,  of  shadow  and 
change ;  and  the  kind  old  Stork  will  tenderly  lay  them  in  loving 
arms,  and  toss  to  each  one,  as  she  did  to  us,  a  little  knot  of 
dreams  to  unravel  until  they  are  strong  enough  to  enter  the 
football  game  of  real  life. 

Look  how  the  dimpled  baby,  with  heaven  in  his  eyes,  kicks 
and  coos  and  flutters  in  his  cradle,  reaching  after  the  flowers 
on  the  mantel  or  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  and  holding  out  his 
chubby  hands  to  grasp  the  sunshine  that  streams  through  the 
window  as  if  it  were  an  angel's  wing! 

What  is  this  world  to  him  but  a  vision  of  the  beautiful- — a 
tinted  castle  in  the  air?  Lured  by  light  and  color  and  follow- 
ing with  startled  eyes  the  forms  that  come  and  go;  kissed  and 
pinched  and  petted  and  almost  devoured  by  the  cannibals  of 
love,  he  soon  grows  weary  of  his  little  knot  of  dreams  and  frets 
and  squirms  upon  his  pillow  until  his  eyelids  grow  heavy  as 
he  lingers  there  on  the  sweet  frontier  of  slumber. 

Now  look  how  the  fond  young  mother,  with  dainty  foot  upon 
the  rocker,  lulls  him  with  her  cradle  song  into  the  fairyland  of 
dreams — that  blissful  land  where  the  angels  dwell,  far  away 
among  the  stars ! 

One  blissful  hour  he  lingers  there  among  the  starry  castles 
of  the  sky,  when — lo! — he  wakes  with  startled  eyes  again  and 
cracks  the  welkin  with  lusty  yells  for  his  castle  in  the  Milky 
Way. 


CASTLES    IN    THE  AIR  1 83 

"And  so  he  sleeps  and  wakes  and  squalls.    What  then? 
He  sleeps  and  wakes  and  squalls  again !  " 

Sometimes  trying  to  swallow  his  fists  and  sometimes  his  little 
pink  toes,  running  the  gauntlet  of  hives,  croup,  colic,  measles, 
and  the  jabs  of  safety  pins,  till  finally  he  crawds  out  of  his  cradle 
to  play  with  painted  toys  and  tumble  down  the  stairs  and  bump 
his  nose  and  stump  his  toes,  yelling  between  bumps  and  bump- 
ing between  yells,  until  he  sheds  his  kilts  and  his  front  teeth  and 
jumps  into  knee  breeches,  to  be  his  father's  irrepressible  outlaw 
and  his  mother's  darling  savage ;  riding  stick  horses  through  the 
mudpuddle  and  then  through  the  house,  just  to  leave  his  trail ; 
tying  firecrackers  to  tlie  dog's  tail  and  setting  them  off  with 
matches,  just  to  see  him  run  and  to  hear  him  yelp;  throwing 
mice  among  the  ladies,  just  to  see  them  stand  with  elevated 
skirts  on  the  sofas  and  the  chairs ;  hiding  toad  frogs  in  his  sis- 
ter's slippers  before  she  rises  in  the  morning,  just  to  hear  her 
scream ;  filling  his  grandfather's  pipe  with  gimpowder,  just 
to  see  it  flash  when  the  old  man  starts  to  smoke; 

"Always  hungry,  always  eating. 

Always  dirty,  always  bad; 
Every  day  his  crimes  repeating, 

Always  dodging   from  his  dad. 

"Always  scouting,  always  scheming, 

Always  happy  everywhere; 
Always   shouting,   always   dreaming, 

Building  castles  in  the  air." 

"How  many  are  twice  twenty,  my  son  ?"  asked  his  teacher. 
But  he  scratched  his  head  and  couldn't  tell. 

"Well,"  said  the  teacher,  "suppose  your  father  should  come 
home  tonight  and  give  your  mother  two  twenty-dollar  bills,  what 
would  she  have?" 

"She'd  have  a  fit!" 

The  good  old  preacher  patted  him  on  the  head  and  said: 
"My  son,  be  a  good  boy,  and  always  honor  the  gray  hairs  of  the 
old." 

"Well,"  said  the  boy,  "that's  all  right;  but  pa  don't;  he 
dyes  his  whiskers." 


184  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

His  father  became  feeble,  and  was  thorougbly  examined  by 
the  doctor.  "Why,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  have  no  organic 
trouble  whatever;  you  are  only  weak  and  debilitated;  and  1 
prescribe  for  you  a  stiff  hot  toddy  every  morning." 

"0,  no!"  said  the  old  man.  "I  can't  do  that.  I  never  took 
a  drink  of  whisky  in  my  life.  I  despise  the  accursed  stuff.  And. 
besides  that,  I  wouldn't  have  my  wife  and  little  boy  to  see  me 
take  a  drink  for  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"But,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  must  take  it.  Get  a  glass  of 
hot  water  every  morning  and  tell  them  you  are  going  to  shave, 
pour  the  whisky  into  it  and  drink  it  down,  and  they  will  never 
know  it." 

In  about  three  weeks  the  boy  went  in  a  dead  run  for  the 
doctor. 

"What's  the  matter  now  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

"We  want  you  to  come  and  see  pa;  he's  losin'  his  mind; 
he  shaves  six  or  seven  times  a  day!" 

O,  spare  the  slipper  and  be  patient  with  your  little  bouncing 
laugh  and  bounding  yell,  for  he  will  bound  away  from  you 
soon  enough !  If  the  world  does  not  claim  him,  the  angels  will; 
and  then  you  will  know  the  meaning  of  the  Hoosier  poet's 
storv : 

"Here's  his  ragged  roundabout, 
Turn  the  pockets  inside  out; 
See,   his   penknife,   lost   to   use, 
Rusted  shut  with  apple  juice. 
Here,  with  marbles,  top,  and  string, 
Is  his  deadly  devil  sling, 
With  its  rubber,  limp  at  last. 
As  the  sparrows  of  the  past ! 
Beeswax,  buckles,  leather  straps, 
Bullets,  and  a  box  of  caps — 
Not  a  thing  of  all,  I  guess, 
But  betrays  some  waywardness; 

"Here's  the  little  coat,  but— O!— 
Where  is  he  we've  censured  so? 
Don't  you  hear  us  calling,  dear? 
Back!  come  back,  and  never  fear; 
You  may  wander  where  you  will, 
Over  orchard,  field  and  hill; 


Castles  in  the  air  185 

You  may  kill  the  birds,  or  do 
Anything  that  pleases  you ! 
Ah,  this  empty  coat  of  his ! 
Every  tatter  worth  a  kiss, 
Every  stain  as  pure  instead 
As  the   white  stars   overhead ; 
And  the  pockets — homes  were  they 
Of  the  little  hands  that  play 
Now,  no  more;  but,  absent,  thus 
Beckon  us." 

Be  tender  with  the  boy;  for  if  the  angels  do  not  take  him. 
Nature  will  soon  lead  him  away  from  his  toys  and  his  marble? 
and  his  childish  fun  and  frolic,  and  they  will  soon  be  to  him 
only  precious  memories. 

He  will  soon  dream  and  sigh  in  Cupid's  castle  in  the  air. 
on  the  boundary  line  of  real  life.  His  gosling  voice  will  soon 
oscillate  between  a  fife  and  a  bass  drum,  and  his  upper  lip 
will  soon  be  sprinkled  with  hair,  and  he  will  be  eager  for  the 
fray.  He  said  to  his  first  sweetheart  as  he  entered  the  parlor 
one  evening:  "I'm  going  to  kiss  you  before  I  leave  this  house." 
And  she  pouted  her  lips  and  answered:  "Leave  this  house  in- 
stantly !" 

I  cannot  repress  a  little  story  of  my  youth : 

When  I  was  a  gay  country  boy  in  my  teens  and  my  jeans, 
I  was  as  green  as  gTeen  could  be — I  was  as  green  as  turnip 
greens.  And  I  had  two  cronies  who  were  just  as  green  as  I, 
if  not  a  little  greener.  But  we  were  in  that  dreamy  period  of 
watery-jointed  sentimentality  which  comes  in  the  life  of  every 
boy.  The  world  to  us  was  a  honeysuckle,  and  we  were  in  search 
of  honey.  Three  little  girls  who  had  once  lived  in  the  neigh- 
borhood were  our  sweethearts  from  babyhood.  But  their  father, 
who  was  a  prosperous  merchant,  had  long  since  moved  to  the 
city — a  hundred  miles  away — and  we  had  not  seen  our  little 
"tootsey  wootseys"  for  years  and  years;  but  the  report  came 
back  to  us  that  they  still  loved  us  and  wished  us  to  visit  them. 
And  so,  with  butternut  suits  and  squeaking  boots  and  our  little 
wool  hats  with  brims  pushed  up  in  front,  we  boarded  the  cars 
and  were  soon  primping  and  perspiring  within  five  blocks  of 
the  flounced  and  powdered  enemy.     One  of  my  chums  had  a 

(12) 


1 86  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

bull's-eye  watch  about  the  size  of  a  saucer,  and  we  kept  our  eyes 
on  its  hands  and  our  ears  on  its  ticks  until  the  hour  for  action 
arrived.  We  felt  that  we  were  not  dressed  well  enough,  and  so 
we  entered  a  store  and  each  bought  a  pair  of  kid  gloves  to  match 
the  color  of  our  little  ribbon  neckties.  One  bought  white ; 
another,  green ;  and  I  took  "yaller."  It  took  us  an  hour  and  a 
half  to  get  them  on ;  and  when  we  buttoned  them  over  our  wrists 
it  stopped  the  circulation,  and  our  hands  swelled  and  our  fin- 
gers strutted,  and  we  walked  up  the  street  with  our  fingers 
strutting  out  and  our  boots  squeaking  until  they  could  have 
been  heard  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

Far  out  among  the  hills  where  we  lived  there  was  no  such 
a  thing  as  a  doorbell.  And  soon  there  was  a  tapping  as  of  some 
one  loudly  rapping,  rapping  hard  upon  the  door ;  and  the  silken, 
sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  our  sweethearts'  skirts  within  thrilled 
us  and  filled  us  with  fantastic  terrors  no  mortal  ever  felt  before. 
But  open  swung  the  heavy  door,  when  we  began  to  execute  our 
studied  and  practiced  bows,  and  the  century  reeled  as  we  paused 
in  the  hall.  It  was  only  a  pause,  for  in  our  excitement  we  made 
a  rush  to  the  parlor  and  flung  ourselves  into  three  chairs  in  the 
most  distant  corner,  and  sat  there  blushing  and  perspiring  in 
front  of  three  sofas  far  away  in  another  corner,  occupied 
by  three  little  slippered  and  skirted  dreams  of  beauty,  who 
beckoned  and  begged  us  to  come  across ;  but  we  only  answered 
the  challenge  with  more  blushes  and  more  perspiration.  We  had 
discovered  that  the  little  country  sweethearts  had  grown  up  into 
refined  and  cultured  young  ladies,  with  not  a  single  trace  of  the 
unsophisticated  children  we  used  to  know.  And  so  we  grinned 
and  answered  their  questions  in  monosyllables,  with  more 
blushes  and  more  perspiration  until  the  paper  collar  of  one  of 
my  cronies  came  in  two,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  broke 
for  the  hall,  closely  followed  by  his  two  demoralized  and  com- 
pletely routed  comrades ;  and,  amid  the  appeals  of  the  girls, 
we  opened  wide  the  oaken  door.  With  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
not  the  least  obeisance  made  we,  not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed 
we ;  but  we  flew  as  never  birds  had  flown  before — out  into  the 
tempest  and  the  night's  Plutonian  shore — and  the  velvet  violet 
carpet,  with  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er,  our  feet  have  pressed — 
ah,  nevermore! 


CASTLES   IN   THE   AIR  1 87 

The  first  battle  of  life  is  on  the  perilous  field  of  love  around 
Cupid's  castle  in  the  air.  And  there  is  no  peace  until  some 
fair  maiden's  heart  is  stormed  and  taken  and  she  surrenders 
unconditionally  to  the  knight  of  the  grapevine  swing,  when  two 
souls  will  heave  a  single  sigh,  two  hearts  will  swing  as  one.  And 
so  the  trouble  begins  in  the  romantic  swing  of  a  dream.  He  sees 
a  little  brown  cot  with  a  willowy  form  of  beauty  in  it,  somewhere 
in  the  love-embowered  future. 

"She  builds  her  rosy  castle  in  the  air, 
And  its  corner  stone  is  a  solitaire." 

Is  there  any  dream  in  life  half  so  sweet  as  this?  Is  there 
any  castle  half  so  fair  ?  Is  it  not  the  springtime  of  the  heart — 
the  full-blown  rose  of  happiness  ? 

How  glorious  the  world  would  be  if  youth  could  last  for- 
ever! 

"Yet — ah ! — that  spring  should  vanish  with  the  rose, 
That  youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  should  close ! " 

Ah,  that  the  thunder  heads  of  trouble  should  rise  to  darken 
life's  happy  morning!  For  when  the  solemn  vows  are  spoken 
at  the  altar  and  they  start  in  real  life  together,  we  know  there 
is  walking  ahead  of  him  and  worrying  waiting  for  her.  His 
little  knot  of  dreams  may  unwind  in  the  presidential  chair;  it 
may  untangle  into  a  plow  line.  Hers  may  be  woven  into  the 
silken  gowns  of  a  social  queen;  it  may  unravel  in  a  washtub. 

But  if  Fate  clips  a  man's  pinions  and  casts  his  lot  on  the 
humblest  plane  of  life,  let  him  be  a  hero  there,  and  add  the 
wealth  of  a  good  name  to  the  sum  of  human  happiness ;  for  it  is 
the  climax  of  folly  to  grieve  for  stations  we  cannot  attain  and 
for  pleasures  we  cannot  enjoy.  It  is  glorious  to  aspire,  but  it 
is  cowardly  to  shoot  the  arrows  of  envy  at  those  above  us;  and 
yet  we  all  carry  the  arrows  and  the  bow,  and  many  an  unoffend- 
ing wing  is  broken  by  some  heartless  vandal  who  himself  is 
powerless  to  fly  in  the  higher  firmaments  of  happiness. 

Ah,  we  forget  that  humanity  is  only  a  link  in  the  endless 
chain  of  life,  and  that  there  is  a  horizon  of  intelligence  for 
every  individual  of  the  race,  which  defines  his  field  of  endeavor. 


l88  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

And  we  forget  that  happiness  may  be  as  full  and  complete  on 
the  smallest  and  narrowest  horizon  as  it  is  on  the  broadest 
and  the  grandest ;  and  does  not  Nature  teem  with  lessons  to  rivet 
this  truth  on  every  brain  and  impress  it  on  every  heart? 
Is  not  the  little  fish  that  flutters  along  the  shore  among  the  tinted 
shells  in  his  shallow  world  of  rippling  waves  as  happy  as  the 
whale,  whose  throne  is  the  billow  and  whose  empire  is  the 
ocean?  Is  not  the  flea,  whose  tent  is  a  shirt,  as  happy  on  an 
itching  back  as  the  elephant  that  performs  in  the  circus  ?  And 
is  not  the  divine  mosquito  as  vain  of  her  voice  as  Patti  is  of 
hers  ?  And  as  she  buzzes  above  your  pillow  on  a  quiet  summer 
evening,  is  she  not  singing  to  that  frolicsome  flea  an  old  war 
song: 

"Hurrah,   hurree!"   says  the   skeeter  to  the  flea; 

"Hurrah,  hurree!     We'll  sing  a  jubilee. 

You  bite  him  on  the  back 

And  I'll  bite  him  on  the  knee, 

As  I  go  buzzing  through  Georgia!" 

Is  not  that  radiant  star  we  call  Venus,  which  we  sometimes 
see  dancing  in  the  dusk  above  the  horizon,  as  beautiful  as  the 
setting  sun  is  glorious  ?  Is  not  the  monkey  in  his  native  cocoa- 
nut  castle  in  the  air  as  important  in  his  own  estimation  and  as 
fond  of  his  sweet  little  chimpanzee  as  the  modern  society  swell 
who  shakes  his  ambrosial  locks  and  softly  sings  to  his  "gazelle" 
a  little  snatch  from  a  love  song  ? 

"My    little    chimpanzee, 
You're  all  this  world  to  me; 
A  branch  I'll  find  for  thee 
In  my  old  family  tree. 

"No  monkey  shine  for  me; 
A  wedding  fine  there'll  be 
In  high  society, 
In  Zanzibar." 

And  surely  that  barefooted  boy  who  blows  soap  bubbles 
and  breaks  washbowls  in  the  back  yard  would  not  give  one 
hour  of  his  boyish  sports  and  pleasures  for  three  terms  as  Gov- 


CASTLES   IN   THE  AIR  189 

emor  of  his  State.  Nor  would  that  impecunious  youth  in  the 
swing  exchange  his  little  armful  of  heaving  organdie  and 
quivering  ribbons, 

"With  face  as  fair  and  lips  as  sweet 
As  when  the  lilies  and  the  roses  meet," 

for  two  seats  in  the  United  States  Senate. 

Surely  the  plo"v\anan  that  homeward  plods  his  weary  way  to 
find  rest  and  curtain  lectures  from  his  wife  and  the  pandemo- 
nium of  a  cabin  full  of  children  is  as  happy  in  his  humble 
sphere  as  the  millionaire,  with  his  engines  pufRng  and  tooting 
through  the  icebergs  of  his  heart,  with  his  restless  days,  his 
sleepless  nights,  his  society  wife,  and  no  children  at  all  to  yell 
around  him  and  pull  his  leg  and  tousle  his  whiskers. 

There  is  happiness  enough  for  us  all  if  we  would  only 
recognize  it  when  we  meet  it.  There  is  contentment  enough 
if  we  would  only  be  contented. 

If  life  is  only  a  dream,  why  not  make  it  a  joyful  dream? 
If  you  laugh  and  the  world  laughs  with  you,  why  not  keep 
it  always  laughing  ?  If  you  weep,  why  not  weep  alone  ?  Why 
ask  the  world  to  blubber  Avith  you  ?  If  you  stumble  and  break 
your  dream,  pocket  the  pieces  with  a  smile,  and  blow  another 
bubble  in  the  air,  and  get  on  it  and  float  away  in  the  sunlight 
of  laughter  and  song.  If  Fortune  forbids  you  a  palace,  be 
contented  to  dwell  in  Paradise  Alley  and  tell  as  much  of  the 
truth  as  you  can.  Keep  your  eyes  wide  open  by  day  and  don't 
talk  in  your  sleep. 

An  old-time  darkey  was  closing  his  sermon  one  night  in 
Paradise  Alley,  and  Uncle  Rastus,  who  had  been  playing  cards 
the  night  before,  was  seated  in  the  amen  corner  sound  asleep, 
dreaming  of  his  favorite  game.     The  old  preacher  said : 

"We  \vill  now  close  dis  meetin'  wid  pra'r,  an'  we  will  ax 
Br'er  Rastus  to  lead." 

Uncle  Rastus  suddenly  aroused  from  his  slumber  and  shout- 
ed :    "It  hain't  my  lead ;  I  jist  dealt !" 

Aunt  Dinah  came  home  from  meeting  in  Paradise  Alley  with 
one  of  her  eyes  badly  swollen. 


1 90  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

"What  is  de  matter  wid  dat  eye,  Dinah?"  asked  Uncle 
l^icodemus. 

"Well,  sah,  dar  wuz  a  great  big  nigger  'oman  shouted  to- 
night, named  Chloe,  an'  she  come  down  de  aisle  uv  de  church 
slingin'  her  arms  powerful  keerless  an'  struck  me  right  i-n  de 
eye  an'  knocked  me  senseless.  She  nebber  stopped  to  ax  my 
'pologies,  but  jis'  kep'  on  shoutin' — she  doan  like  me  nohow. 
I'se  gwine  ter  shout  myself  nex'  Sunday  night,  an'  I'se  a-gwine 
ter  put  a  razzer  in  my  bosom,  an'  I'se  gwine  ter  shout  in  de 
direction  uv  dat  nigger." 

Let  us  all  remember  as  we  pass  through  this  vale  of  tears 
that  if  we  don't  take  care  of  ourselves,  nobody  else  in  this  world 
will  take  care  of  us. 

A  shrewd  and  wily  horse  trader  asked  an  old  farmer  one 
day,  down  in  Paradise  Alley,  the  price  of  his  old  sorrel  horse. 
The  farmer  told  him,  and  warned  him  that  the  horse  had  two 
grievous  faults.  "One  of  them  is  this,"  said  the  old  man: 
"when  you  turn  him  loose  in  the  pasture,  you  can't  catch  him." 
Said  the  horse  trader:  "That's  all  right;  I'll  keep  him  up. 
What  is  the  other  ?"  "I'll  not  tell  you,"  said  the  old  farmer, 
"until  after  you  have  paid  for  him."  The  trade  was  quickly 
made.  "Now,  what  is  the  other  fault  ?"  asked  the  horse  trader. 
"Well,"  said  the  old  farmer,  "he  ain't  worth  a  durn  after  you 
catch  him."  And  so  it  is  with  most  of  the  pleasures  of  this 
world ;  they  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  catching  them.  The 
greatest  happiness  we  get  out  of  life  lies  in  contentment  with  our 
lot  and  in  honest,  hard  work,  for  it  is  the  law  of  God. 

Love  kisses  us  from  the  unconscious  dust  into  conscious 
being,  and  endows  us  with  the  powers  of  mind  and  soul  to  dream, 
each  in  his  own  firmament,  and  to  search  for  happiness,  each 
within  his  own  horizon — some  for  science  and  some  for  art,  some 
to  command  and  some  to  execute,  some  to  think  and  some  to 
labor  with  their  hands — differing  all  as  one  star  differeth  from 
another  in  glory,  yet  all  designed  to  be  harmonious  for  the 
fulfillment  of  the  sublime  dream  of  God. 

We  are  not  all  born  for  the  learned  professions.  We  cannot 
all  sail  our  kites  above  the  tall  timber.  We  cannot  all  fly  in 
the  higher  firmaments.  And  what  a  dangerous  thing  it  is  to 
rise  to  dizzy  heights  on  somebody  else's  wings! 


CASTLES    IN    THE   AIR  I9I 

The  birds  of  the  work!  held  a  convention  once  to  see  which 
conld  fly  the  highest.  The  blackbird  was  there,  and  the  blue- 
bird and  the  woodpecker,  and  all  the  feathered  creation  was 
assembled  to  settle  the  question  as  to  who  should  be  king  of  the 
air.  The  word  was  given,  and  the  swarms  of  birds  began  to 
circle  upward.  But  the  eagle  cut  a  broader  circle  than  the 
rest,  and  up  and  up  and  up  he  soared,  imtil  at  last  he  stood 
trembling  on  poised  wings  in  midair  and  gave  a  scream  of 
triumph  far  above  the  highest  bird  of  them  all.  But  he  heard 
a  chirp  above  him  and  looked  around,  and — lo! — a  tomtit  had 
nestled  under  his  feathers  on  his  back,  and  was  chirping  out: 
"I  am  higher  than  you  are,  Mr.  Eagle ;  /  am  king  of  the 
air!"  And  the  old  eagle  reached  around  with  his  beak  and 
pulled  him  off  and  let  him  drop  to  earth ;  and  from  that  day  to 
this  the  tomtit  has  never  roosted  higher  than  the  top  rail  of 
a  fence. 

Young  man,  if  the  Lord  has  made  you  a  tomtit,  be  con- 
tented with  your  little  worm  among  the  cedar  berries  and  apple 
blossoms,  and  don't  try  to  soar  with  the  eagles ;  if  you  are  a 
woodcock,  roost  low  and  keep  your  eye  on  the  hawk ;  if  you  are 
a  bat,  take  to  your  hole  when  the  owls  are  in  the  air ;  if  you  arc 
a  robin,  sing  in  your  own  cherry  tree. 

There  is  more  music  in  a  mocking  bird's  tliroat  than  in  all 
the  ravens  that  ever  blackened  the  sky;  there  is  more  laughter 
and  song  in  the  humblest  cottage,  where  the  roses  bloom  by  the 
door  and  love  abides  within,  than  in  all  the  palaces  of  this 
w^orld  where  love  is  not !  The  sweetest  song  birds  do  not  sing 
above  the  clouds,  nor  do  they  build  their  nests  among  the  crags. 
I  would  rather  be  a  dove  in  the  world  of  dreams  and  fly  close 
to  the  meadow  and  the  stream  than  to  be  a  vulture  among  the 
Alps,  preying  upon  the  helpless  and  the  innocent !  What's  the 
use  to  fret  and  frowTi  under  the  tree  of  knowledge  if  your  pole 
is  too  short  to  knock  the  highest  persimmon  ?  What's  the  use 
to  peck  and  claw  at  the  Temple  of  Fame  because  you  cannot 
roost  on  its  dome  ?  What's  the  use  to  curse  the  fish  of  Fortune 
because  you  can't  get  a  bite?  You  are  fishing  in  deep  water, 
and  your  line  is  too  short.  Move  down  to  the  shoals  among 
the  chubs  and  suckers,  where  you  belong,  and  enjoy  yourself,  or 
steal  away  to  some  smaller  stream.     Remember  that  speckled 


192  LECTURES    OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

trout  do  not  swim  in  the  mighty  river,  but  glint  and  glance  in 
the  crystal  pools  of  the  mountain  brook  under  the  laurel  bloom. 
Be  a  leader  in  your  own  firmament.  Blow  your  bubbles 
according  to  the  size  of  your  pipe  and  the  quality  of  your  soap- 
suds, and  be  sure  you  don't  break  the  washbowl.  Don't  try  to 
fly  your  little  feeble  kite  among  the  high  snags  of  glory.  There 
are  persimmons  of  honor  enough  for  us  all  and  fish  of  Fortune 
enough;  there  is  room  for  every  wing  in  the  glorious  realm  of 
dreams. 

Are  you  poor?  Thank  God,  poverty  cannot  fetter  the  soul! 
Rags  cannot  humble  the  intellect.  Destiny  may  have  made 
you  a  slave,  but  rejoice  in  the  dream  that  in  your  cabin  there 
may  be  a  fledgeling  that  will  some  day  rise  above  Adversity  and 
fly  away  to  the  summer  land  of  Prosperity ;  and,  in  his  triumph. 
Happiness  will  bubble  in  your  own  heart  like  a  spring.  If  you 
bear  the  burden  faithfully  for  the  sake  of  love  and  duty,  every 
pain  will  turn  into  a  pleasure  and  every  agony  into  a  joy.  We 
all  have  as  much  trouble  as  we  can  bear,  but  heaven  despises  the 
miserable  wretch  who  unloads  his  woes  like  a  skunk  wherever  he 
goes  and  makes  humanity  hold  its  nose  with  his  putrid  stories 
of  sad  misfortune,  hard  times,  and  the  cold  realities  of  this  un- 
friendly world.  Heaven  despises  a  walking  nightmare  and 
calamity  howler.  Let  us  remember  that  life  is  not  real;  it  is 
only  the  symbol  of  reality;  it  is  the  shadow  of  the  substance; 
it  is  a  mysterious  castle  in  the  air  built  of  dreams — dreams 
which  prophesy  immortality.  Let  us  sit  steady  in  the  boat, 
for  we  are  floating  down  a  river  of  dreams.  We  dream,  and  all 
Nature  dreams  with  us.  When  the  frosty  winds  begin  to  whis- 
per of  approaching  winter,  what  makes  the  swallows  circle  up- 
ward and  southward  take  their  flight?  Are  they  not  dreaming 
of  softer  skies  that  bend  above  the  land  of  the  orange  and  the 
palm  ?  Are  they  not  building  castles  of  sunshine  around  the 
gorgeous  Ponce  de  Leon,  where  the  migratory  snobs  of  the  blue 
feather  flock,  or  among  the  groves  of  Palm  Beach  where  soft 
billows  kiss  the  sands  and  swallow-tailed  Yankees  fly  high  ? 

And  when  the  snows  of  winter  melt  away,  what  makes  the 
orchards  and  the  meadows  bloom  ?  Are  they  not  building  fra- 
grant castles  in  the  air?  Who  are  those  winged  minstrels  that 
sing  among  the  apple  blossoms?     Are  they  not  dreaming  of 


CASTLES   IN   THE  AIR  193 

happiness  ?  What  makes  the  prodigal  June  fill  the  world  with 
blossoms  and  the  Frost  King  of  Autumn  flaunt  his  banners 
of  purple  and  gold  in  the  face  of  the  sun  ?  Are  they  not  dream- 
ing of  the  beautiful?  Do  we  not  drink  music  from  the  bub- 
bling fountains  of  the  air  and  cull  the  dreams  of  God  from 
the  epic  poems  that  lie  scattered  all  around  us?  Does  not  all 
life  aspire  to  God,  and  does  not  every  plant  and  flower  teach  us 
to  dream  within  our  own  spheres? 

We  cannot  all  be  ISTewtons  and  Keplers,  Miltons  and  Shake- 
speares,  Calhouns  and  Websters;  but  we  can  be  great  in  the 
spheres  for  which  God  created  us. 

If  the  wrecked  hopes  and  shattered  dreams  that  strew  the 
pathway  of  mankind  teach  us  anything,  it  is  that  discontent- 
ment with  our  lot  and  the  envy  of  spirits  that  soar  above  us  are 
the  serpents  that  destroy  the  Edens  of  so  many  human  hearts. 
We  forget  that  whoever  enters  the  lists  for  the  laurel  wreath 
of  renown  must  bare  his  head  for  a  crown  of  thorns  and  pre- 
pare to  drink  of  the  bitter  cup  which  Sorrow  has  pressed  to  the 
lips  of  genius  in  every  age. 

There  never  was  a  victory  won  in  this  world  that  did  not 
cost  human  suffering;  there  never  was  a  pearl  of  truth  that  was 
not  the  price  of  agony.  Socrates  taught  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  and  a  cup  of  hemlock  was  the  reward  of  his  dream ;  Paul 
preached  it,  and  was  paid  with  the  dungeon  and  death ;  Christ 
demonstrated  it,  and  perished  on  the  cross  that  our  fallen  race 
might  taste  the  sweets  of  eternal  life  and  eternal  happiness.  All 
the  blessings  we  enjoy  have  come  to  us  through  blood  and  tears. 

Brave  old  Gutenberg  invented  movable  type  under  the  lash 
of  injustice,  and  even  in  the  face  of  exile  and  death ;  and  what 
floods  of  light  have  flowed  from  his  dream  of  the  printing  press ! 
What  rivers  of  knowledge !    What  Niagaras  of  happiness ! 

The  wisdom  and  experience,  the  philosophy  and  learning, 
of  every  land  and  every  clime  are  ours.  Every  library  is  a 
treasure  house  of  wisdom  and  experience,  and  every  book  is  a 
volume  of  dreams.  We  open  them  and  turn  the  leaves,  and  the 
shadows  of  vanished  centuries  pass  before  our  eyes.  We  look 
across  the  continent  of  two  thousand  years  and  behold  Phidias 
standing  like  a  god  and  dreaming  in  marble  among  the  columns 
of  the  Parthenon.    Lo,  Galileo  conjures  his  dreams  into  a  lens 


194  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

and  unveils  new  heavens  above  to  the  astonished  gaze  of  all 
mankind ;  conjures  his  dreams  into  another  lens  and  reveals 
new  firmaments  below  us— each  drop  of  water  a  world,  each 
cubic  foot  of  earth  and  air  a  universe  teeming  with  energy  and 
panting  with  life ! 

There  is  Herschel  looking  through  the  telescope  and  dis- 
covering innumerable  suns  of  many  colors  never  dreamed  of 
before — white  and  yellow  and  ruby  and  emerald  suns — vast  sys- 
tems of  flaming  orbs,  moving  in  every  conceivable  direction,  yet 
all  in  eternal  harmony,  until  the  shining  pageant  melts  away 
into  patches  of  filmy  light  on  the  dark  profound  beyond.  Lo. 
Columbus,  amid  the  mutiny  of  his  men  and  the  dangers  of 
imknown  seas,  discovers  a  new  world,  which  is  to  be  the  birth- 
place of  human  liberty  and  whose  stalwart  sons  shall  lead  the 
old  world  into  the  light  of  a  new  and  grander  civilization ! 

Yonder  is  Dante  painting  the  horrors  of  seven  hells  and 
still  dreaming  of  his  angelic  Beatrice  in  song  that  will  never 
die;  and  Raphael  dreaming  in  colors  and  calling  forth  his 
charming  phantoms  of  light  and  shadow  on  the  canvas  to  set 
the  whole  world  to  dreaming;  and  Liszt  and  ]\Iozart  and  Men- 
delssohn and  Handel  and  Haydn  and  Beethoven  and  Paganini 
dreaming  in  harmony,  and  with  nimble  fingers  tripping  and 
dancing  on  ivory  keys  or  deftly  touching  the  strings  of  harp 
or  violin,  building  castles  of  music  in  the  air  and  bearing  our 
souls  away  to  their  misty  halls  of  melody,  where  the  gates  of 
heaven  stand  ajar,  and  we  listen  to  the  symphonies  stolen  from 
the  seraphim  and  cherubim  of  God. 

But  look  how  the  sword  of  some  Alexander  the  Great  gleams 
on  every  leaf  and  stains  almost  every  page  with  human  blood ! 
Look  how  the  grim  specter  of  some  Napoleon  rises  on  the  hori- 
zon of  war  and  then  vanishes  in  the  darkness  of  disaster — "the 
somnambulist  of  a  vast  shattered  dream !" 

I  would  rather  be  a  Stephenson  in  history,  liarnessing  steam 
power  to  the  imperial  car  of  civilization,  than  to  be  a  Caesar, 
with  some  Antony  standing  above  my  corpse,  with  my  bloody 
mantle  in  his  hand,  and  saying  to  the  horrified  multitude : 

"See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made ! 
Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd; 
And  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  follow'd  it!" 


CASTLES    IN    THE   AIR  195 

I  would  rather  be  a  Franklin  or  an  Edison,  holding  the  light- 
nings like  chained  hounds  crouching  and  cowering  at  mj  feet, 
than  to  be  a  George  the  Third,  with  the  crowTi  of  an  empire 
upon  my  brow  and  the  boot  of  George  Washington  under  my 
coat  tail. 

I  would  rather  be  an  Agassiz,  interpreting  the  mind  of  God 
and  wrenching  his  secrets  out  from  his  cabinet  of  rocks  or  tear- 
ing away  the  veil  of  mystery  from  the  hidden  wonders  of  earth 
and  air,  than  to  be  Edward  VII.,  tearing  my  shirt  in  South 
Africa,  or  the  President  of  the  United  States,  snagging  my 
pants  on  a  bolo  in  the  Philippines. 

We  turn  the  pages  and  read  and  wonder  at  the  bubbles  the 
world  has  blown  and  the  washbowls  it  has  broken  and  the  soap 
it  has  wasted.  All  that  we  gather  from  the  vanished  past  is  a 
harvest  of  dreams,  a  few  golden  sheaves  of  thought,  a  few  echoes 
of  music  from  harp  strings  that  are  broken,  a  few  lines  and 
curves  of  beauty  traced  on  dismantled  walls  and  fallen  columns. 
a  few  deeds  of  chivalry  to  tell  the  story  of  some  departed  Don 
Quixote  charging  the  windmill  of  earthly  glory  and  some  de- 
voted Sancho  Panza  hugging  the  jackass  of  Fame. 

Where  are  all  the  triumphs  of  the  N'ations  that  now  are 
dust?  Where  are  all  their  dreams  of  happiness?  And  the 
dreamers — O,  where  are  they  ? 

Ask  the  pilgrim  waters  of  the  Nile:  Where  are  Egypt's 
pride  and  glory?  Where  are  Thebes  and  Memphis?  Tell  us. 
O  Nile,  where  is  old  Pharaoh  and  his  plagues  of  locusts  and 
lice,  his  showers  of  grasshoppers  and  his  frogs  on  a  thousand 
hills  ?  Where  is  the  royal  maiden  who  went  out  to  swim  and 
hung  her  clothes  on  a  hickory  limb  and  ran  up  on  Moses  in  the 
bulrushes  ?  Where  is  Joseph  and  his  "corner"  on  com  ?  And 
where,  O  where,  is  beautiful  Cleopatra,  who  cornered  Mark 
Antony  on  the  Wall  street  of  love  and,  when  the  panic  came, 
took  snake  "pizen"  and  skipped  by  the  light  of  the  moon  to  the 
Canada  of  the  great  unknown  ?  And  the  Nile  will  ripple  with 
laughter  as  it  murmurs  back  the  answer:  "Look  upon  the 
Sphinx  and  the  pyramids  and  ga.-e  upon  the  mummies ;  for  all 
that  is  left  of  Egypt's  castles  in  the  air  is  a  'rag,  a  bone,  and  a 
hank  o' hair'!" 


196  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

Then  turn  another  leaf  in  the  dream  book  of  time,  and  ask 
the  wind  that  once  whistled  through  the  whiskers  of  ancient 
Greece:  Tell  us,  O  Classic  Breeze,  where  are  all  those  white- 
robed  dreamers  who  once  flocked  on  the  Aegean  shores  ?  Where 
are  Pericles  and  Socrates,  Demosthenes  and  Euripides,  Thucyd- 
ides  and  Aristophanes,  and  all  that  long  list  of  immortal  "eses" 
who  dipped  and  dyed  and  shook  their  wings  in  literature  and 
philosophy  long  ago?  Where  is  Hippocrates,  and  where  is 
Damocles?  Where  is  Diogenes,  that  wise  old  gander  who  car- 
ried a  lantern  around  in  broad  daylight  hunting  for  an  honest 
man — that  solemn  old  gander  who  hissed  at  Alexander:  "Why 
don't  you  get  out  of  my  sunshine  ?" 

"Are  all  these  mighty  Hellenes 

Now  in  the  heaven  of  blissful  ease, 

At  rest  from  fools  and  flies  and  fleas, 

Beyond   the   shining   Pleiades? 

And  the  wind  will  wheeze  across  the  seas; 

There's  nothing  left  of  these  old  geese 

But  a  few  tail  feathers  and  a  spot  of  Greece." 

Now  turn  another  leaf  and  let  the  curtain  rise  on  Rome. 

O,  K-rome!  R-rome!  R-rome!  Who  ground  thy  frowning 
walls  of  Aurelian  and  Honorus  into  snuff  ?  Who  pulverized  thy 
Forum  Magnum  and  Forum  Transitorium  ?  Who  pounded  thy 
palaces  and  statues  and  triumphal  arches  into  dust  and  made 
phosphate  of  thy  Pantheon,  where  once  thy  proud  Caesars  bowed 
their  jeweled  heads  before  the  gods  ?  Whose  foot  tramped  on 
thy  amphitheaters  and  made  pulp  of  thy  gladiators  ?  Who  dis- 
solved thy  shouting  multitudes  into  ashes  and  snatched  thy  seven 
hills  baldheaded  ?  O,  R-rome,  thou  didst  drain  the  poison  cup 
of  unsanctified  power  and  stagger  off  the  planet!  Thy  dreams 
are  bursted  bubbles,  thy  glory  is  a  broken  bowl ! 

Woe  unto  the  nation  that  wabbles  out  of  the  orbit  of  right- 
eousness! Woe  unto  the  man  who  staggers  away  from  the 
problems  which  God  intended  him  to  solve!  There  is  no  room 
in  the  glorious  castle  of  civilization  for  idle  brains  and  idle 
hands.  We  are  not  all  born  for  intellectual  endeavor,  and  this 
is  the  snag  on  which  so  many  kites  get  hung.  It  is  the  shady 
summer  resort  of  Laziness,  which  imagines  it  has  brains.     We 


CASTLES   IN   THE  AIR  197 

are  all  striving  to  dodge  the  plow  handles.  The  prayer  is  not, 
"Where  shall  I  labor,  O  Lord?"  but:  "O  God,  how  shall  I 
escape  the  plow  handles  ?"  The  dread  of  the  corn  field  has  driven 
many  an  idiot  to  the  pulpit  and  the  bar  and  many  a  fool  into 
politics. 

A  gawky  boy  expressed  it  when  he  boasted:  "My  mamma 
says  I'm  a-goin'  to  live  without  workin'."  "How  so  ?"  said  his 
company.     "Why,  she  says  I'm  goin'  to  be  a  politician." 

A  lazy,  good-for-nothing  WTetch  read  an  advertisement  pro- 
posing to  any  one  who  would  inclose  a  dollar  to  reveal  the 
secret  of  how  to  get  through  life  without  work.  The  dollar 
was  promptly  sent,  and  in  due  time  he  received  a  card,  on  which 
were  these  words : 

"Go  out  in  the  woods  and  hang  yourself." 

I  have  seen  young  men  who  would  lose  sleep  all  night  sere- 
nading their  sweethearts  and  were  too  lazy  to  get  up  early 
enough  in  the  morning  to  make  fires  for  them  after  they  had 
married  them. 

"Uncle  Rastus,"  said  the  Colonel,  "you  promised  to  begin 
this  work  today.     What's  the  matter  ?" 

"Well,  boss,"  said  Uncle  Rastus,  "I'se  got  a  mighty  tired 
feelin'  dis  morning',  an'  I'se  been  sot  back  in  beginning,  an'  I 
jis'  'eluded  I'd  put  it  off  till  nex'  week." 

"Why,"  said  the  Colonel,  "this  is  Monday." 

"Well,  I  knows  dat's  so,  boss;  but  de  mornin's  half  gone, 
an'  it's  only  a  few  days  till  Friday,  an'  dat's  bad  luck,  an'  I 
sho'  ain't  gwine  to  work  on  a  Sunday;  an'  so  I  jis'  'eluded  to 
wait  till  I  gets  a  good  fresh  start  nex'  week,  sah." 

Work  is  the  only  antitoxin  for  human  woe,  it  is  the  only 
hope  of  happiness  in  this  world  and  of  eternal  happiness  when 
we  shall  have  passed  from  the  shadow  to  the  substance,  from 
the  dream  to  the  reality. 

The  microbe  of  indolence  is  the  great  destroyer  not  only  of 
men,  but  of  nations.  It  breaks  down  the  tissue  of  every  rap- 
turous dream  and  stills  the  heart  of  every  laudable  ambition.  It 
is  the  bacillus  of  Poverty  and  the  germ  of  Corruption  and 
Crime. 

When  Caius  Gracchus  infused  it  into  the  blood  of  the 
Roman  Empire  by  the  free  distribution  of  corn  among  his  peo- 


198  LECTURES  Of  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

pie,  which  had  been  extorted  from  conquered  nations  around 
him,  under  the  delusion  that  he  was  promoting  the  welfare  and 
happiness  of  his  country,  he  did  not  dream  that  he  was  giving 
Rome  a  torpid  liver  which  would  finally  "turn  her  toes  to  the 
daisies."     O,  that  he  could  have  reigned  in  old  Kentucky, 

"Where  life  itself  in  sluices 
Flows   in  mellow,  amber  juices, 
And  the  corn  is  full  of  kernels, 
And  the  Colonels  full  of  corn ;" 

where  the  beauty  of  the  women  intoxicates  the  soul ;  where  the 
trim  and  dashing  thoroughbreds  move  like  meteors,  with  their 
tails  over  the  moon  and  their  chins  over  the  stars,  and  the  men 
go  like  they  were  shot — out  of  a  gun. 

An  old  Tennessee  Colonel  went  staggering  down  the  street 
one  night  full  of  corn,  and  saw  the  moon  rise  in  her  glory,  and 
he  suddenly  paused  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face  and  said: 

"Hie,  you  needn't  be  laugh'n'  at  me ;  you  get  full  yourself 
once  a  month!" 

An  old  Virginia  Colonel,  whose  wife  broke  loose  in  a  storm 
of  wrath  every  time  he  came  home  late  full  of  corn,  slipped  in 
one  night,  with  his  boots  in  his  hand,  and  entered  her  room  and 
found  her  sleeping  sweetly  there.  Silently  he  sat  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  and  hoisted  his  umbrella,  and  remained  silent 
till  she  awoke  and  raised  up  on  her  elbow  and  shouted:  "For 
the  land's  sake.  Colonel,  what  are  you  doin'  ?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear — just  waiting  for  the  storm." 

In  about  two  seconds  the  umbrella  was  in  shreds,  and  the 
Colonel  slept  in  the  barn  that  night,  dreaming  of  earthquakes 
and  cyclones. 

An  old  Carolina  Colonel,  one  cold,  frosty  morning,  found 
his  way  to  a  stillhouse,  and,  knowing  the  proprietor  well,  said: 

"William,  I  never  was  as  nigh  dead  in  my  life.  I  laid  in  a 
fence  corner  all  night  last  night  with  an  overdose  of  corn,  and 
I'm  almost  froze,  and  I'm  on  the  verge  of  paralysis.  For  the 
Lord's  sake,  give  me  a  good  toddy  as  quick  as  you  can,  or  I'll  die 
in  fifteen  minutes." 


CASTLES   IN   THE  Alft  109 

William  had  two  little  goats  that  had  got  separated,  and  one 
of  them  was  running  around  the  stillhouse  bleating  for  the 
other ;  and  he  turned  and  said  to  the  Colonel : 

"If  you'll  bleat  right  pretty  like  that  goat,  I'll  give  you  a 
tumbler  full  of  good  old  corn." 

The  Colonel  said: 

"William,  I'm  nothing  but  an  old  drunkard ;  but  before  I'll 
humiliate  myself  by  bleatin'  like  a  durn  goat  fur  a  drink  of 
liquor,  I'll  die  right  here." 

"All  right,"  William  said.  "Catch  my  horse,  Rastus ;  I  must 
go  to  town: 

The  Colonel  said: 

"William,  don't  devil  an  old  man  that  way.  Let  me  have 
one.     I'll  die  before  I'll  bleat." 

William  put  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  said :  "Colonel,  are 
you  goin'  to  town  ?" 

"O,"  said  the  Colonel,  "please,  William,  let  me  have  a 
drink;  I'm  dying!    No  use  talkin'  about  my  bleatin'." 

"Good  mornin',  Colonel!"  shouted  William,  as  he  vaulted  in 
the  saddle   and   started  in   the   direction  of  town. 

The  Colonel  first  looked  at  William  and  then  at  the  goat, 
and  said: 

"Bla-ha-hal!    Durn  you!!!" 

And  soon  the  world  was  full  of  music,  for  the  Colonel  was 
full  of  corn. 

But  liquid  corn  is  not  the  main  question  involved  in  this 
discussion,  although  it  is  a  siren  that  wooes  but  to  destroy; 
for  its  excessive  use  makes  it  the  energy  of  hell  that  sets  the 
brain  on  fire  and  burns  all  the  beautiful  castles  of  love  and 
hope  and  happiness  into  ashes  and  swells  the  ranks  of  idleness 
and  floods  the  world  with  tears. 

God  pity  the  man  who  has  brain  power  and  does  not  dream 
on  the  right  side  of  life,  and  who  does  not  do  his  part  in  the 
great  hive  of  human  endeavor! 

The  wealth  of  ages  is  our  heritage — wealth  of  which  count- 
less generations  have  dreamed  and  in  the  struggle  for  which 
unnumbered  millions  have  suffered  and  died;  the  wealth  of 
liberty  and  law  that  makes  every  home  the  castle  and  palace  of  a 
prince  and  Qxerj  citizen  a  sovereign;  the  wealth  of  the  library 


^06  LECTURES  OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

to  enlighten  ns  and  of  tlic  Christian  religion  to  guide  us;  the 
wealth  of  opportunity  to  utilize  not  only  our  own,  but  the  dreams 
of  all  who  have  dreamed  before  us,  and  to  work  in  harmony  for 
the  upbuilding  of  our  race. 

It  is  the  province  of  unfettered  Thought  to  invent  and  dis- 
cover, of  Art  to  design,  and  of  Labor  to  execute;  and  when  this 
triumvirate  of  power  moves  the  whole  world  moves  with  it.  It 
is  this  imperial  triumvirate  that  pulls  down  the  hills  and  drags 
forth  their  treasures;  that  makes  the  ax  gleam  in  the  forest 
and  the  plowshare  flash  in  the  furrow ;  that  makes  the  dynamite 
thunder  among  the  cliffs  and  the  furnaces  flame  with  melting 
ores.  It  is  the  union  of  hearts  and  the  union  of  hands  that 
builds  bridges  and  launches  ships  and  heaves  the  domes  and 
spires  of  civilization  in  the  air  above  the  sheaves  and  shocks  of 
plenty. 

John  Howard  Payne  touched  the  tenderest  chord  that 
vibrates  in  the  great  throbbing  heart  of  all  humankind  when  he 
gave  to  the  world  his  song  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  for  within 
the  heaven  of  its  four  blessed  walls  the  first  bright  and  buoyant 
soap  bubbles  of  hope  are  blown  and  about  its  sacred  hearth- 
stones are  built  the  love-illumined  castles  of  memory. 

What  is  man  but  a  mystery  of  mud  and  mind,  a  miracle 
of  dust  and  dream,  a  spirit  bird  in  a  cage  of  clay,  brother  to 
the  parrot,  akin  to  the  angels,  forever  beating  his  wings  against 
the  prison  bars  of  flesh  and  bone,  and  crying  out  in  plaintive 
tones  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  "Polly  wants  a  cracker!" 
forever  praying  to  the  Lord  to  take  poor  Polly  home;  but  let 
the  grim  messenger  come  and  with  skeleton  hand  begin  to  un- 
latch the  door,  and  instantly  Brother  Parrot  will  drop  from  his 
perch  and  plead  with  trembling  voice : 

"Oh,  please  let  poor  Polly  stay  a  little  longer !" 

What  a  strange  infatuation  of  the  jewel  for  its  casket,  of 
the  spirit  for  its  crumbling  castle  in  the  air !  What  a  marvelous 
alliance  of  music  and  muscle,  of  love  with  ligament,  and  of 
soul  with  common  clay!  But  banish  the  castle-building  power 
of  the  mind  of  man,  take  away  the  soul  and  make  him  only  an 
animal,  and  the  humblest  creatures  around  him  are  his  su- 
periors. In  length  of  life  the  camel  and  the  swan  become,  com- 
pared to  him,  Methuselahs ;  in  size  and  strength  the  ox  and  the 


CASTLES    IN    THE   AIR  201 

elephant  become  Samsons  and  Goliaths;  the  hound  can  out- 
smell  him,  the  deer  can  outrun  him,  the  granddaddy-long-legs 
can  outleap  him,  the  eagle  and  condor  can  outsee  him — except 
when  it  comes  to  searching  for  a  dollar.  He  can  then  outsee 
all  the  eagles  and  condors  in  the  world. 

Did  you  ever  watch  an  ant  drag  a  dead  grasshopper  to  his 
little  hotel  on  the  European  plan  ?  If  man  had  the  strength  of 
an  ant  in  proportion  to  his  size,  he  could  lay  hold  of  the  pillars 
of  the  Capitol  at  Washington  and  instantly  adjourn  Congress 
to  meet  beyond  this  vale  of  tears  in  the  summer  land  of  song. 
He  could  roll  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  up  the  steps  of  Vesuvius 
and  tumble  it  into  the  crater. 

A  Jeffries  in  the  prize  ring  sets  the  sporting  world  agog 
when  he  puts  some  Fitzsimmons  or  Corbett  to  sleep  in  fifteen 
brutal  rounds ;  but  I  have  seen  a  mad  hornet  in  a  blackberry 
patch  knock  out  a  meddlesome  boy  with  a  single  blow  delivered 
straight  from  his  business  end,  and  the  boy  got  up  and  ske- 
daddled, w^ith  a  knot  on  his  head,  and  the  hornet  returned  in 
triumph,  with  blood  on  his  glove,  to  his  swinging  castle  in 
the  air. 

And  yet  this  union  of  dirt  and  divinity,  this  marriage  of 
mortality  to  immortality,  makes  man  next  to  the  noblest  work 
of  God.  Woman  is  the  noblest,  thank  the  Lord;  but  man  em- 
braces woman,  and  the  twain  are  the  highest  types  of  this  glori- 
ous creation. 

When  this  world  of  ours  had  rolled  out  from  among  the 
dark  and  warring  elements  of  chaos,  and  the  hand  of  Almighty 
Power  had  stamped  the  face  of  infant  nature  with  ineffable 
beauty,  it  was  then  the  Lord  God  himself  built  castles  in  the 
air  and  dreamed  of  a  ruler  for  the  land  and  the  sea ;  and,  mak- 
ing himself  the  model,  he  fashioned  an  image  out  of  the  un- 
conscious dust  and  called  it  man.  The  young  earth  offered  her 
purest  marbles,  her  finest  gold;  yet  he  passed  these  by  and 
chose  the  ignoble  clay.  Never  was  matter  exalted  to  such  a 
station  by  such  an  artist  in  all  the  tide  of  time;  for  when  he 
had  given  it  the  last  divine  touches  of  majesty  and  glory,  he 
left  it  not  as  Praxiteles  left  his  image  of  the  lovely  Aphrodite — 
cold,  insensate  marble  still — nor  as  Michaelangelo  left  his 
beautiful  David,  which  he  could  not  inspire  with  the  music 

(13) 


202  LECTURES    OF    ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

I 

and  the  dream ;  but  the  Divine  Sculptor  breathed  upon  his  mas- 
terpiece, and,  lo!  it  awoke,  and  the  warm,  red  tides  leaped 
and  throbbed  through  every  vein ;  the  springs  of  action  quick- 
ened in  every  muscle ;  the  subtle  currents  of  vital  force  flashed 
and  thrilled  through  every  nerve ;  the  sightless  eyes  received  the 
focused  light  and  looked  out  on  the  dazzling  splendors  of  earth 
and  sky;  the  dull,  immobile  features  glowed  with  the  divinity 
of  soul  and  thought — and  the  first  likeness  of  the  living  God 
stepped  forth  a  living  man. 

Filled  with  wonderment,  he  walked  in  a  garden  of  peren- 
nial bloom  and  strayed  by  a  crystal  river.  It  was  an  Eden 
untainted  by  sin,  untouched  by  death — a  poem  of  light  and  color, 
a  lyric  of  love  and  melody,  an  open  volume  fragrant  with  the 
dreams  of  God,  whose  numbers,  smooth  as  the  rhythm  of  the 
tripping  hours,  murmured  in  all  its  joyous  waters,  bubbled  in 
every  feathered  throat,  fluttered  in  every  painted  wing  and 
trembled  in  every  leaf  and  flower. 

The  soft  air  was  aflame  with  gorgeous  wings  and  resonant 
with  rapturous  songs  for  the  happiness  of  earth's  first  son. 
Tigers,  lithe  and  sinuous,  crouched  and  purred  their  pleasures 
at  his  feet;  lions  licked  his  fondling  hand;  and  spotted  fawns 
and  snow-white  lambs  gamboled  the  daisied  fields  around  him. 
The  great  giraffe,  bending  his  neck,  browsed  the  tree  tops  below, 
and  then,  towering  like  the  Matterhorn,  poked  his  little  head 
between  the  stars  and  nodded  to  the  music  of  the  spheres.  The 
grotesque  antics  of  the  puzzled  elephant,  in  his  bewildered 
efforts  to  determine  whether  he  had  two  tails  or  two  trunks, 
plunged  Adam  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  which  spread  throughout 
all  Paradise. 

"The  gray  monkey  grinned  in  the  cocoanut  tree, 
And  the  meadow  lark  chuckled  in  the  clover; 

The  grasshopper  giggled  and  winked  at  the  flea, 
While  the  kangaroo  laughed  all  over. 

All  Eden  rang  with  a  weird,  wild  laugh, 

Which  lasted  the  livelong  day; 
They  laughed  and  they  laughed  till  the  big  giraffe 
Led  the  two-tailed  elephant  away." 


CASTLES    IN    THE   AIR  2O3 

1 

But  this  excess  of  mirth  and  joy  around  him,  and  this  prodi- 
gality of  beauty,  with  none  to  share  it,  turned  his  laughter  into 
signs  and  tortured  him  with  a  vague  and  discontented  longing 
for  another  self.  In  his  dreams  by  night,  in  his  reveries  by  day, 
he  caught  glimpses  of  a  being  so  fair  that  even  the  angels  must 
fall  down  and  worship  at  her  feet.  He  apostrophized  her  love- 
liness in  every  rose,  her  purity  in  every  lily,  her  modesty  in 
every  violet.  If  he  loitered  under  the  great  palms  he  heard  her 
sigh  in  every  passing  zephyr,  her  w'hisper  in  every  rustling  leaf ; 
if  he  wandered  by  the  stream  where  the  spreading  willow^s  hung 
their  green  Niagaras  above  the  placid  waters,  he  looked  down 
and  saw  her  smiling  from  a  mirrored  heaven  and  heard  her 
laughter  rippling  forth  from  every  tinkling  wave. 

If  he  sat  at  eventide  in  some  sweet,  dusky  bower,  listen- 
ing to  the  waking  orchestra  of  the  night,  he  felt  the  charm  of 
her  presence  in  the  twilight's  witchery  and  beheld  her  love-lit 
eyes  in  every  liquid  star.  And  while  he  walked  and  wandered 
he  was  ever  building  castles  in  the  air. 

But  one  bright,  smiling  morning  the  smiling  Adam  woke 
and  found  his  smiling  Eve,  and  life  to  them  was  one  perpetual 
smile  until,  in  an  evil  hour,  they  were  tempted  to  change  their 
diet,  and  the  angels  led  them  out  and  made  them  the  children 
of  sorrow.  But  Paradise  lost  did  not  mean  the  destruction  of 
its  images  and  memories  in  the  brain  of  man,  nor  did  it  crush 
his  power  to  dream. 

They  w-ent  from  Eden  into  a  strange,  new  world,  and,  with 
God-given  imagination,  they  filled  its  Avaste  places  with  bril- 
liant, beautiful  castles  in  the  air. 


TEMPTATION 


TEMPTATION 

Temptation  is  the  gi'eat  disturber  of  the  universe.  It  is  the 
only  evil  that  ever  entered  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  We  are  told 
in  Holy  Writ  that  it  kindled  the  spirit  of  Lucifer  into  flame, 
and  he  drew  about  him  a  countless  host  of  immortal  spirits, 
cherubim  and  serapliim — the  tallest  angels  of  light — and,  with 
his  burning  eloquence,  persuaded  them  to  throw  off  allegiance 
to  Almighty  God  and  rally  around  the  standard  of  rebellion 
against  his  throne.  l>ut  scarcely  had  they  drawn  their  flaming 
swords  and  uncovered  their  awful  batteries  when  the  live  thun- 
ders of  his  infinite  wrath  smote  and  shattered  their  shining 
ranks  and  hurled  them  headlong  from  the  battlements  of  heaven 
into  the  black  vault  of  outer  darkness,  where  life  forever  dies 
and  death  lives  forever. 

And  we  are  told  that  when  this  beautiful  planet  of  ours 
had  rolled  out  from  chaos  and  the  hand  of  Almighty  Power  had 
stamped  it  with  ineffable  beauty,  and  Paradise  first  blushed  in 
the  presence  of  its  admiring  God,  the  fallen  archangel,  con- 
sumed with  the  ambition  for  revenge,  mounted  upward  through 
the  gloom  in  search  of  the  new-born  world  to  accomplish  the 
fall  of  man  with  the  subtle  tongue  of  temptation.  And  when 
this  dreadful  work  was  done,  I  think  he  laughed  with  derision 
as  the  weeping  exiles  from  the  smiles  of  God  looked  back  from 
the  flame  that  laid  in  ashes  earth's  first  and  only  habitation  of 
perfect  peace  and  happiness ;  I  think  he  laughed  in  triumph  at 
the  youth  and  beauty  he  had  destroyed  and  the  ruin  he  had 
wrought;  for,  looking  down  through  the  coming  centuries,  he 
knew  that  the  fountain  he  had  corrupted  would  pour  out 
millions  of  tainted  souls  to  be  subject  to  his  power;  and  when 
he  saw  the  shadow  of  death  dancing  on  the  horizon  of  the  future, 
he  took  wing  and  dropped  like  a  falling  star  into  the  abyss  of 
eternal  night. 

Ever  since  that  awful  day  he  has  been  in  perpetual  warfare 
with  the  angels  of  light  for  supremacy  over  man,  arguing  with 
reason  till  reason  staggers  from  her  throne,  and  with  virtue  till 
virtue  hesitates  and  falls.     Like  some  malevolent  spider  of  the 


208  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

spirit  world,  he  weaves  and  forever  weaves  with  invisible  fila- 
ments his  fatal  nets  and  snares  and  spreads  them  all  along  the 
pathway  of  every  human  life.  He  is  the  very  divinity  of  evil, 
veiling  himself  in  everything  that  charms  the  intellect  and  fasci- 
nates the  soul.    Like  the  siren,  he  sings  his  song  in  every  heart. 

To  nations  he  is  no  less  a  menace  and  destroyer.  Like  some 
invisible  cobra,  he  twines  himself  in  every  capitol  and  lies  in 
wait  for  governments.  He  is  the  most  eloquent  sophist  that 
ever  beguiled  a  Senate  or  a  House  of  Lords,  concealing  his 
poison  in  the  very  lilies  of  chaste  speech  and  clothing  corrup- 
tion in  the  livery  of  immaculate  love.  He  is  the  chief  procurer 
in  the  commerce  of  shame.  He  is  the  ambassador  of  hell  in  the 
court  of  humanity. 

There  is  your  history — go  and  read  it.  Every  volume  is  a 
story  of  temptation ;  every  page  is  a  picture  of  the  fall  of  man. 
There  in  the  shadows  of  the  sombre  past  is  Alexander  the  Great 
riding  like  death  on  the  pale  horse  over  the  necks  of  fallen 
nations  and  compelling  the  world  to  pay  tribute  to  his  sword; 
there  he  is  sheathing  that  sword  in  tears  because  there  are  no 
more  worlds  to  conquer;  and  there  is  Satan  filling  the  goblet  to 
the  brim  and  pressing  it  to  his  imperial  lips,  and  the  greatest 
warrior  of  all  history  yielding  at  last  to  the  temptation  of  a 
draft  of  wine  and  staggering  off  the  planet. 

ISTow  look  again,  and  there  is  Julius  Caesar  turning  away 
from  love  and  the  sweet  allurements  of  pleasure  to  climb  the 
rugged  steeps  of  glory ;  there  is  no  boundary  line  to  his  empire ; 
the  world  is  at  his  feet;  but  there  is  temptation  holding  up  a 
crown  and  beckoning  to  him  from  the  forum;  and  just  as  he 
proudly  walks  down  the  marble  hall  to  seize  it  there  is  a  flash 
of  daggers  around  him,  a  gasp,  a  sigh  and  a  bloody  mantle, 
and  amid  the  tumult  and  consternation  of  the  Roman  Senate 
death  snatches  Caesar's  laurels  from  his  brow  and  robs  him  of 
his  crown. 

There   Caesar   lies,   a   fallen   god, 
Two  thousand  years  beneath  the  sod. 
The  lizards  creep  where  once  he  bled, 
And  ravens  croak  above  his  head. 
Oh,  Rome  is  dust !     Her  glory  gone ! 
Temptation  still  goes  marching  on. 


TEMPTATION  209 

N'ow  turn  another  frowning  leaf,  and  there  is  the  tempter 
firing  the  heart  of  the  Corsican  lieutenant  and  urging  him  on 
in  that  meteoric  career  of  splendid  conquest  which  sweeps  the 
flower  of  the  world  into  the  grave  and  blanches  the  cheeks  of 
kings.  But  when  the  clouds  have  lifted  from  Waterloo  and 
the  roar  of  battle  is  hushed,  there  is  nothing  left  but  a  faded 
lily  and  a  broken  sword,  and  there  is  the  unthroned  jSTapoleon, 
like  an  eagle  chained  to  a  rock  in  a  distant  sea,  looking  back 
toward  France  o'er  the  waste  of  waters,  and  dreaming  of  an 
empire  that  is  lost  to  him  forever. 

There  is  your  history — go  and  read  it,  page  by  page — and 
what  is  it  all  but  a  vast,  shattered  dream — a  few  echoes  of 
music  from  harpstrings  that  are  broken — a  few  bursts  of  elo- 
quence from  lips  that  now  are  dust — a  few  lines  and  curves  of 
beauty  traced  on  dismantled  walls  and  fallen  columns — the 
sound  of  an  imperial  sword  being  drawn — a  blinding  flash — a 
puff  of  smoke — a  stream  of  blood — and  temptation  standing 
there  in  the  dusk  of  vanished  years  writing  his  name  on  the 
tombstones  of  fallen  nations. 

What  are  all  the  myths  that  come  to  us  out  of  the  dark  and 
distant  past  but  fantastic  tales  of  the  tempter  blowing  out  the 
light  of  hope  and  love  and  poisoning  the  springs  of  human  hap- 
piness? 

And  so  he  flies  from  age  to  age,  sleepless  as  the  stars  of 
night,  hovering  over  every  pillow,  awaiting  the  exit  of  the  angel 
of  dreams,  and  then  slipping  in  through  the  opening  portals 
of  consciousness  to  whisper  sweet  promises  of  the  coming  day ; 
and  the  waking  world  rises  from  two  billion  couches  and  rushes 
through  the  myriad  gates  of  enchantment  to  seize  the  treasures 
that  glitter  and  glow  in  the  phantom  world  of  the  imagination. 
Above  one  gate  there  hangs  a  crown  of  glory,  and  the  trumpet 
of  fame  sounds  within,  calling  Ambition  to  the  battle  field  of 
politics.  And,  oh !  what  a  battle  field  it  is !  It  is  the  conflict 
of  contending  spirits,  where  the  descending  sword  of  intellect 
cleaves  the  helmet  of  passion,  and  the  keen  lance  of  logic  pierces 
the  armor  of  ignorance;  where  deadly  shafts  of  ridicule  are 
hurled  against  shimmering  shields  of  rhetoric,  and  flying  darts 
of  wit  and  humor  perforate  the  frowns  of  dignity.     It  is  the 


2IO  LECTURES    OF    ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

plash  of  ideas  and  policies  of  government.  It  is  the  combat  of 
principles.     It  is  the  universal  struggle  of  mankind  for  power. 

But  when  the  din  of  the  bewildering  strife  has  lulled  into 
silence  and  the  shouts  and  huzzahs  of  the  multitudes  have  died 
away,  there  are  no  lifting  clouds  of  smoke  revealing  heaps  of 
dead  and  dying  men.  But  far  more  pitiful  are  the  heaps  of 
dead  hopes  and  dying  dreams ;  far  more  pathetic  than  the  limp- 
ing stragglers  of  a  routed  army  are  crippled  aspirations  dodging 
behind  trees  of  profanity,  and  bruised  and  battered  ambitions 
seeking  refuge  in  the  wilderness  of  reform.  Far  more  solemn 
than  the  Red  Cross  litters  bearing  the  wounded  from  the  field 
of  glory  is  the  long  line  of  wounded  feelings  returning  on 
stretchers  to  the  shades  of  private  life,  with  a  hole  in  his  rep- 
utation and  his  pride  in  a  sling. 

In  these  imperial  days,  when  frenzied  politics  and  frenzied 
finance  go  hand  in  hand  together;  when  honor  and  reason  are 
forgotten  in  the  wild  rush  for  gold  and  the  power  and  position 
which  it  buys,  who  can  dam  and  dyke  the  corrupting  flood  of 
aggregated  wealth  and  keep  it  in  its  channel  ?  Who  can  build 
a  system  of  laws  broad  enough  and  strong  enough  to  prevent  its 
glittering  tides  from  sloshing  into  our  capitol  and  finally  drown- 
ing the  republic? 

Has  not  the  beautiful  science  of  free  government  been  re- 
duced to  the  most  subtle  and  exquisite  art  that  ever  scuttled  a 
state  or  sunk  a  nation?  I  mean  the  art  of  modern  machine 
politics — the  art  of  conjuring  the  wealth  of  the  country  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  sleeping  sovereigns  without  waking  them ;  the 
art  of  clipping  Samson's  hair  w^hile  he  sleeps ;  the  art  of  con- 
verting a  free  government  into  an  empire  in  the  name  of 
Almighty  God.  Is  it  not  the  black  art  of  temptation  in  ten 
thousand  different  forms  ?  Sometimes  it  slips  into  a  caucus  or 
a  convention,  and  sometimes  into  the  temple  of  justice,  and 
even  into  the  halls  of  legislation,  and  whispers  one  magic  word 
into  the  ear  of  listening  power,  and,  lo !  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  majorities  are  changed  to  minorities,  and  minorities  to  ma- 
jorities. It  whispers  one  magic  word  and  opinions  and  con- 
victions upon  great  principles  and  policies  of  government  are 
reversed  in  an  hour.     That  magic  word  is  "Money."    Oh,  won- 


TEMPTATION  211 

drous  word  of  marvelous  power — Money !  Oh,  ravishing  syno- 
nym of  earthly  glory,  so  full  of  the  music  and  the  dream — 
Money ! 

In  it  are  visions  of  frescoed  halls  in  shady  groves  resplend- 
ent with  matchless  forms  of  grace  that  breathe  in  the  sculptured 
marble  and  the  painted  canvas.  Oh,  sweet  evangel  of  the  beauti- 
ful— "Money!"  In  it  are  reflected  the  stolen  fires  of  the  stars 
flashing  in  diamond  pins,  and  the  crimson  glow  of  sunset  skies 
set  in  gold ;  in  it  are  banquet  spreads,  with  crimson  streams  of 
wine  and  amber  seas  of  sour  mash — old  and  mellow  liquors 
whose  beaded  billows  forever  break  on  fragi-ant  shores  of  mint. 
The  humble  men  who  wield  the  pick  in  the  dark  and  perilous 
mine  are  forgotten ;  the  calloused  hands  that  swing  the  hammer 
and  the  axe  are  lost  in  the  shuffle,  and  the  enthusiastic  multi- 
tudes who  but  yesterday  twined  the  laurel  wreath  about  their 
brows  are  overshadowed  by  the  gold-crowned  god  of  Mammon. 
Corruption  taps  the  sugar  tree  of  our  national  wealth  and  glory 
with  a  golden  hatchet,  and  the  conspirators  boil  the  sap  into 
sugar  in  the  dead  hours  of  the  night  with  the  lanterns  dimly 
burning.  But  old  Hickory  Shirt  is  not  invited  to  the  candy- 
pulling — nor  Dr.  Honesty,  nor  Esq.  Patriotism,  nor  any  of  the 
old  folks  at  home — Colonel  Reform  and  General  Welfare  are 
excluded  from  the  feast  of  treason,  and  the  flow  of  sap,  and  the 
division  of  the  spoils.  "On  with  the  orgies!"  cries  exultant 
Temptation.  "Let  joy  be  unconfined !"  And  there  is  the  clink 
of  brimming  glasses  in  the  very  shadow  of  the  Capitol,  and 
there  is  the  jingle  of  golden  eagles  as  they  rise  from  the  jingling 
table  and  sing  the  national  hymn. 

I  would  scorn  to  be  a  pessimist  on  the  platform,  but  I  can- 
not repress  the  impulse  to  point  to  the  shadow  of  human  liberty 
lengthening  toward  the  east.  Has  not  our  Constitution  been 
interpreted  to  death  ?  And  is  not  all  power  slipping  away  from 
the  American  people  ?  Has  not  Samson  been  shorn  of  his  locks 
while  yet  he  slumbers  with  the  ballot  in  his  hand  ?  Is  not  the 
Rip  Van  Winkle  of  popular  government  lost  in  the  Adirondacks 
of  prosperity  ?  Has  he  not  drunk  too  deep  from  the  jug  of  in- 
difference? Is  he  not  sleeping  too  long  on  his  rights?  And 
will  be  not  some  day  rise  from  his  trance  to  find  the  gunstock 


212  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

of  sovereignty  rotted  from  the  barrel  at  his  side  and  nothing 
but  the  skeleton  of  happiness  lying  at  his  feet  ? 

But  what  doth  wealth  and  power  care 
For  Samson  when  he's  lost  his  hair? 
The  tears  are  vain  that  Rip  doth  shed; 
He  slept  too  long;  his  dog  is  dead. 
Thus  states  are  shorn  and  nations  weep 
For  crimes  committed  while  they  sleep. 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the  pilot  and  his  peril  ?  There 
was  once  a  great  overflow  of  the  Mississippi  River.  In  places 
it  was  forty  miles  wide.  The  faithful  j)ilot  stood  at  his  wheel 
night  and  day  to  keep  the  steamer  in  the  channel  and  save  her 
from  destruction.  He  stood  there  at  his  post  until  he  was  ex- 
hausted and  almost  dead  from  loss  of  sleep ;  and  finally  he 
called  Uncle  Ephraim,  who  was  his  roustabout,  to  come  and  take 
the  wheel.  The  old  darkey  took  it  and  waited  for  instructions. 
"'Now,  Uncle  Ephraim,"  said  the  pilot,  "do  you  see  the  ISTorth 
Star  yonder  ?"  "Yas,  suh,  I  sees  de  :N'o'th  Star."  "Well,  keep 
the  nozzle  of  the  boat  square  to  the  ISTorth  Star  while  I  sleep  a 
little,  and  there'll  be  no  danger  of  accident."  "All  right,  boss ;  I 
sho  will  keep  her  dar."  But  when  the  old  man  took  his  eyes 
off  the  I^orth  Star  and  looked  up  again,  all  stars  looked  alike  to 
him,  and  when  the  pilot  woke  the  boat  was  away  out  in  the 
country  and  Uncle  Ephraim  was  guiding  her  around  rocks  and 
hills  and  sandbars,  and  the  pilot  shouted :  "You  old  fool,  didn't 
I  tell  you  to  keep  the  nozzle  of  this  boat  square  to  the  North 
Star?"  "Yas,  suh,  you  sho  did,  but,  boss,  you'se  been  asleep 
heep  longer'n  you  thinks  you  is.  We's  done  passed  the  No'th 
Star  two  hours  ago," 

I  believe  there  is  manhood  enough  and  virtue  enough  to 
keep  the  keel  of  our  national  hope  and  glory  in  the  channel,  but 
the  fear  is  in  the  heart  of  the  thinking  world  that  we  have 
passed  the  N'orth  Star  of  safety,  and  that,  though  we  are  gliding 
smoothly  now,  God  knows  how  soon  we  will  be  dashed  to  pieces 
among  the  rocks  and  hills  of  temptation.  I  shall  not  discuss 
these  rocks  and  hills  tonight,  but  will  name  only  a  few:  One 
is  class  legislation;  another  is  imperialism;  another  is  the  uni- 
versal extravagance  of  the  American  people ;  another  is  the  gov- 
ernment in  the  whiskey  business.     On  the  eve  of  every  great 


TEMPTATION  2I3 

election  retrenchment  and  reform  are  on  the  lips  of  the  govern- 
ment, but  when  the  election  is  over  and  the  danger  of  defeat 
is  past,  the  revelry  begins  again  and  the  crimes  against  liberty 
are  forgotten. 

Old  Uncle  ISTicodemiis  fell  sick  in  his  cabin  one  day  away 
down  South  in  Dixie,  He  grew  more  feverish  and  feeble  every 
hour,  and  finally  he  called  his  old  wife  to  his  bedside,  and,  with 
a  tremulous  voice,  said:  "Dinali,  dis  is  my  las'  sickness.  I'se 
a  gwine  to  die,  sho."  Aunt  Dinah  bent  over  him  with  stream- 
ing eyes  and  said :  "Nicodemus,  has  yo'  made  peace  wid  de 
Lawd  ?"  "]^o,  Dinah ;  I'se  been  tryin'  to  pray  to  de  Lawd  all 
mawnin'  to  forgive  my  sins,  but  eber  time  I  tries  to  pray  dem 
blankets  and  quilts  and  things  I'se  been  stealin'  aroun'  in  de 
neighborhood  gits  right  up  in  de  air  and  spreads  out,  and  de 
good  Lawd  won't  heah  my  pra'r.  I  wish  you  would  fold  'em 
all  up  and  send  'em  home  as  quick  as  you  kin.  You  knows  whar 
I  got  'em."  "Dat's  right,"  Aunt  Dinah  said;  "I'll  fold  'em 
all  up  and  sen'  George  Washington  to  ketch  de  mule,  and  I'll 
sen'  'em  all  back  right  now." 

And  she  went  to  work  folding  up  the  blankets  and  quilts, 
and  Uncle  Xicodemus  fell  into  a  sweet  sleep.  And  just  as  Aunt 
Dinah  was  getting  ready  to  send  the  things  home  the  old  man 
woke  and  feebly  said:  "Dinah,  come  heah!"  She  rushed  to 
him  and  said,  "What's  de  matter  now,  honey?"  "Dinah,  has 
you  sent  dem  quilts  and  blankets  and  things  home  ?"  "'No, 
honey,  but  I'se  got  'em  all  ready;  now,  don't  worry  yo'self." 
"Oh,  Dinah,  if  you  isn't  sent  'em,  don't  be  too  quick  about  it ;  I 
feels  a  little  better." 

And  so  it  is  with  the  shifting  lights  and  shadows  and  chang- 
ing scenes  of  politics — the  moment  the  fear  of  retribution  van- 
ishes and  a  new  lease  of  power  is  assured,  the  spirit  of  reform 
takes  wings  and  a  call  comes  from  the  throne,  "Oh,  Dinah,  come 
heah.  If  you  isn't  sent  dem  quilts  and  blankets  home,  don't 
sen'  'em ;  I  feels  a  little  better." 

If  I  could  get  the  ear  of  the  young  men  of  my  country  I 
would  whisper  soft  and  low  to  them :  There  is  no  easy  way  of 
life,  but  the  hardest,  darkest  and  most  dangerous  way  of  all  lies 
in  the  turbulent  realm  of  politics.     For  it  is  a  cold  and  heart- 


214  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

less  struggle  to  the  end,  and  many  a  brave  and  brilliant  knight 
passes  out  with  a  hole  in  his  valor  and  his  pride  in  a  sling. 

Every  candidate  is  a  walking  petition  and  a  living  prayer, 
and  every  officeholder  is  a  lion — until  just  before  the  next  elec- 
tion— then  he  is  a  lamb.  Today  he  has  the  world  by  the  tail 
and  a  down-hill  pull;  tomorrow  it  gets  away  from  him  and 
leaves  him  gazing  into  space  with  only  the  tail  feathers  of  his 
glory  dangling  in  his  hands.  There  is  nothing  sure  in  politics 
but  temptation. 

Two  old  members  of  the  Legislature  from  away  up  at  the 
head  of  the  creek  roomed  together  in  the  capital  city  of  my 
native  State.  They  were  both  church  members,  but  both  loved 
liquor,  and  the  habit  of  both  was  to  rise  before  daylight,  say 
their  prayers  and  take  their  morning  dram.  John  rose  very 
early  one  morning,  and,  groping  around  in  the  darkness,  stum- 
bled over  the  legs  of  William,  who  was  on  his  knees  silently  say- 
ing his  prayer.  William  stopped  in  the  middle  of  his  prayer 
and  said:  "John,  you  will  find  the  liquor  there  in  the  w^asli- 
stand  drawer — Lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us  from 
evil — John,  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  drink  it  all — For  thine 
is  the  kingdom  and  the  power  and  the  glory  forever — John, 
hand  me  that  bottle — google,  google,  google — Amen."  And 
the  devil  cut  the  pigeon  wing  in  the  purple  of  the  dawn. 

The  multitudinous  ideals  of  happiness  that  light  up  the 
brain  of  man  are  as  different  in  degree  and  form  as  the  constel- 
lations that  light  the  heavens  above  us.  In  one  it  is  an  office ; 
in  another,  a  bag  of  gold;  in  another,  the  drama;  in  another; 
wine  and  the  social  function;  in  another,  a  laurel  wreath  of 
glory  and  dominion  over  men.  But  in  all  it  is  only  a  rapturous 
dream,  a  filmy  bubble  wathin  whose  filmy  walls  tempta- 
tion tunes  his  fiddle  and  the  world  dances  to  the  music.  But 
the  leader  of  the  dance  is  that  king  of  all  the  evil  passions  that 
heave  the  human  breast — the  unfettered  lust  for  gold.  It  is 
the  Shylock  of  every  age.  It  is  the  ISTero  of  every  civilization. 
It  rides  rough-shod  over  love,  and  mercy,  and  liberty,  and  law. 
Its  imperial  banner  floats  in  every  mart  of  business  and  over 
every  capitol.  The  golden  gate  of  greed  through  which  the  na- 
tions rush  each  day  in  search  of  the  shrine  of  fortune  towers 
high  above  all  other  gates  of  enchantment. 


TEMPTATION  215 

Wealth  is  the  supreme  temptation  of  mankind.  The  church 
of  God  is  tinged  with  the  color  of  gold.  Gold  rings  in  the  very 
laughter  and  song  of  the  social  realm.  The  eyes  of  politics  are 
jaundiced  with  it;  and  I  think  if  our  republic  could  be  lifted 
up  to  the  celestial  abode  of  the  blest,  we  would  dig  up  the  golden 
streets  of  the  new  Jerusalem  in  three  hours  and  levy  a  tariff 
on  the  harps  of  the  angels  for  the  protection  of  American  in- 
dustry. 

Look  how  the  temptations  of  our  great  commercial  centers 
are  depopulating  the  country.  Look  how  the  toiling  millions  are 
pouring  out  of  the  fields  into  the  factories  and  shops  and  all 
the  arteries  of  trade.  And  why  ?  It  does  not  pay  to  plow — it  is 
no  longer  profitable  to  sow  and  reap.  Everybody  is  scrambling 
for  a  salary  or  a  contract.  In  every  brain  there  is  an  iron  mine 
or  a  furnace — in  every  heart  a  pile  of  wealth  and  a  palace.  The 
angels  of  happiness  no  longer  beckon  from  the  landscape  and 
the  stream,  nor  call  from  the  sweet  solitudes  among  the  hills,  but 
they  stand  tiptoe  on  the  burnished  domes  and  glittering  spires 
of  the  city  and  the  town  with  bags  of  gold  in  their  hands,  and 
the  eager  throngs  assemble  there  to  climb  after  them  on  a  thou- 
sand ladders  of  dreams. 

But  the   dream  ladders  break, 

And  the  air  castles  fall, 
And  down  tumbles  happiness, 

Honor   and   all. 

If  I  were  an  artist  I  would  paint  a  composite  picture  of 
crime.  I  would  lay  the  scene  in  the  heart  of  the  great  metrop- 
olis. I  would  paint  a  living  stream  of  hurrying  humanity  surg- 
ing and  jostling  to  and  fro,  and  scorning  and  spurning  and 
trampling  the  helpless  down  in  the  hot  pursuit  of  shadows.  I 
would  paint  infatuated  luxury  flaunting  her  silken  skirts  in  the 
hungry  face  of  penury. 

I  would  paint  a  panorama  of  the  palatial  salon  gorgeous 
with  wealth  and  resonant  with  the  uproar  of  pleasure.  I  would 
paint  pride  and  powdered  vanity  winding  off  the  figures  of 
the  german  and  keeping  time  in  a  sort  of  runic  rhyme  to 
the  voluptuous  swells  of  some  sweet  melody.  I  would  paint 
the  manly  form  of  a  clerk  in  the  bank  down  the  way,  with 
flushed  cheeks  and  beaming  eyes,  leading  the  dance  with  an 


2l6  LECTURES   OF    ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

heiress  of  fortune.  But  it  takes  a  golden  key  to  open  the  door 
of  the  four  hundred,  for  it  means  the  opera  and  the  wine  party, 
with  a  little  poker  on  the  side,  and  a  hundred  demands  for 
money  which  only  the  rich  can  afford.  Then  I  would  paint  a 
scene  in  the  bank  dovm  the  way — I  would  paint  the  gay  clerk 
in  a  quandary  and  the  tempter  pointing  to  the  cash  drawer  and 
a  whisper  in  his  heart — a  few  crisp  hills  for  a  day  or  two,  with 
the  ledger  fixed  to  conceal  it,  and  the  embarrassment  will  be 
bridged.  Of  course  he  will  put  it  back — of  course  he  will — 
but  his  heart  almost  chokes  him  as  he  takes  it.  Don't  you 
worry — he'll  make  it  all  right  with  the  bank — why,  certainly! 

But  emergencies  increase  as  the  hours  fly,  and  he  fixes  the 
books  again  and  again  and  again  until  at  last  the  sensation  of 
his  crime  is  about  to  burst  into  flame — and  then  I  would  paint 
him  trying  to  quench  it  in  a  gambling  hell,  in  the  vain  ed- 
deavor  to  retrieve  his  losses  and  put  the  money  back  in  the 
drawer;  and  finally  I  would  paint  him  rising  from  the  fatal 
game  with  swollen  face  and  blood-shot  eyes,  and  staggering 
back  into  the  shadows  with  the  muzzle  of  a  revolver  pressed  to 
his  throbbing  temple.  And  I  would  paint  the  exultant  tempter 
smiling  and  bowing  from  the  burnished  crest  of  a  vanishing 
cloud. 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the  drummer  and  the  mock- 
ing bird  ?  He  said  he  was  lured  into  a  game  of  poker — it  was 
only  a  little  game  with  gentlemen,  but  before  the  clock  struck 
twelve  they  had  won  every  dollar  he  had  in  the  world.  He 
pulled  off  his  watch  and  put  it  up,  and  they  won  it  in  a  jiffy; 
he  pulled  off  his  little  diamond  stud,  and  they  won  that;  and 
about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  went  to  his  room  feeling 
like  the  woodcock  when  the  owl  struck  him — a  perfect  gentle- 
man, but  a  little  short  of  feathers — and  he  concluded  that  he 
would  sleep  off  his  trouble.  He  said:  "People  say  a  mocking 
bird  can't  talk,  but  it  can  talk  as  good  as  anybody  when  it 
wants  to."  For  just  as  he  was  dozing  off  a  mocking  bird  in  a 
bough  at  his  window  began  to  chuckle  and  laugh  and  mock  him 
in  his  anguish,  and,  as  near  as  he  could  remember,  it  went 
this  way : 


CO 


lU 


o 


> 
o 


O! 


TEMPTATION  217 

"Shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle; 
Deal  'em,  deal  'em; 
Two  pair,  two  pair,  two  pair; 
Three  aces,  three  aces,  three  aces; 
Oh,   Lord;      Oh,    Lord!" 

And  the  dreamer  threw  the  cover  and  lit  upon  the  floor. 
And  he  shouted  to  the  mocker,  "I've  heard  you  laugh  before !" 
And  through  the  open  window  went  a  bottle  and  a  shoe, 
And  the  mocker  emigrated,  but  he  chuckled  as  he  flew; 
And  he  lighted  in  a  maple,  and  he  shook  his  little  head. 
As  he  whistled  to  the  drummer,  and  this  is  what  he  said : 
"Shuflle,  shuffle,  shuffle." 

The  Persian  poet  sipped  his  wine  and  sang,  "I  myself  am 
heaven  and  hell."  Was  he  not  a  philosopher?  And  did  he  not 
touch  a  responsive  chord  in  every  human  heart  ?  For  where  is 
the  brain  that  has  not  throbbed  with  a  thrill  of  heaven  when 
some  pure  thought  was  born?  And  where  is  the  bosom  that 
has  not  heaved  with  the  heaven  of  joy  when  the  wing  of  an 
angel  fluttered  in  some  rapturous  dream  ?  And  yet  where  is 
the  spirit  that  has  not  writhed  in  the  hell  of  a  giiilty  conscience  ? 
And  the  soul  that  has  not  swooned  in  the  hell  of  remorse?  T 
myself  am  heaven  and  hell,  and  so  are  we  all.  And  the  conflict 
between  good  and  evil  never  ends.  Whoever  sides  Avith  the 
angels  of  light  and  clings  to  the  pure  and  beautiful  things  of 
life  is  greater  than  ISTapoleon,  for  he  has  driven  temptation 
from  the  field  and  the  gates  of  heaven  stand  ajar.  Whoever 
lines  up  with  the  angels  of  darkness  and  delivers  love  and  virtue 
and  honor  into  the  black  arms  of  lust  and  the  other  vicious  pas- 
sions is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  walking  devil  and  a 
breathing  hell. 

Look  around  you  in  every-day  life  and  behold  the  mirror 
maze  of  heaven  and  hell.  There  is  exultant  youth  in  the 
thoughtless  race  after  the  receding  rainbows  of  forbidden  pleas- 
ures that  hang  in  the  mist  of  dreams — the  tinseled  rainbows  of 
sin — the  tempter's  triumphal  arches — his  gates  of  many  colors 
that  open  to  the  innocent  and  close  behind  the  guilty. 

And  there  is  wild-eyed  speculation  running  over  slow  and 
plodding  business,  not  fascinated  with  the  gorgeous  colors  of 
the  social  phantom,  but  bent  on  finding  the  bag  of  gold  that 
lies  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow. 

(14) 


2l8  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L,    TAYLOR 

And  there  is  Dryden's  hypocrite  with  holy  leer,  "Soft  smil- 
ing and  demurely  looking  down,  but  hid  the  dagger  underneath 
the  gown." 

The  hypocrite  is  the  devil's  dromedary,  and  bears  more  bur- 
dens of  obloquy  and  contempt  for  the  privilege  of  going  to  hell 
than  the  humblest  Christian  bears  for  the  hope  of  reaching 
heaven. 

Yonder  in  the  shadows  of  a  wretched  hovel  is  the  half- 
starved  form  of  an  aged  miser, 

"Who  views  his  coffers  with  suspicious  eyes 
Unlocks  his  gold  and  counts  it  till  he  dies." 

Yonder  goes  green-eyed  envy  with  his  bosom  full  of  serpents 
and  scowling  hatred  thirsting  for  revenge.  Yonder  come 
Mistress  Gossip  and  Madam  Scandal,  "the  foulest  whelps  of 
sin,"  breathing  slanders  everywhere,  and  "at  every  word  a  rep- 
utation dies." 

"Long-breathed  talkers,  minion  lispers, 
Cutting  honest  throats  by  whispers." 

There  goes  the  maudlin  drunkard  staggering  toward  his 
desolate  home.  There  are  no  yesterdays  to  him  nor  tomorrows. 
All  there  is  of  time  is  today.  All  there  is  of  hope  and  memory 
are  drowned  in  the  billows  of  rum.  How  long  till  he  will  drown 
himself  ?  His  family  would  not  shed  a  tear,  nor  his  neighbors ; 
but  old  Skull  and  Cross-Bones  counts  a  gentleman  preserved  in 
alcohol  a  hard  prize  to  win. 

But  the  lump  is  always  leavened  by  the  smiling  faces  of 
piety  and  purity,  and  sturdy  men  and  women  of  character  and 
honor,  forever  winding  in  and  out  through  the  delirious  excesses 
and  dissipations  of  mortal  life,  and  even  in  the  bosom  of  the 
most  degraded  wretch  where  temptation  has  done  his  worst, 
there  is  still  a  spark  of  heaven. 

The  greatest  bulwark  of  civilization  is  the  beautiful  in- 
fluence of  pure  and  virtuous  womanhood.  And  yet  how  deadly 
that  influence  is  to  human  happiness  when  launched  on  the  side 
of  wrong !  Satan  himself  could  not  reach  the  heart  of  man  until 
the  forbidden  fruit  was  offered  by  a  woman.     There  she  stood, 


TEMPTATION  219 

1 

the  fairest,  purest,  loveliest  thing  that  God  ever  made,  with  a 
glow  of  beauty  in  her  face  that  eharmed  the  very  angels,  and 
how  easily  she  led  him  to  his  fall.  Perhaps  it  was  only  a 
languishing  look  and  the  nod  of  a  sweet  poised  head.  Perhaps 
the  slightest  beckon  of  a  dimpled  hand  that  drew  him  obedient 
to  the  tree,  ready  to  barter  for  a  love  sigh  the  happiness  of  a 
coming  world.  The  mere  suggestion  of  a  smile,  a  scarce  seen 
pouting  of  the  lips,  a  soft  appeal  from  lovelit  eyes,  so  tender 
and  yet  so  terrible  with  persuasive  eloquence  that  a  single  glance 
could  slay  a  race  of  men.  What  wonder  then  that  Adam  fell — 
what  wonder  that  men  have  been  falling  ever  since  and  will  be 
to  the  end ! 

What  means  that  perspiring  host  of  noisy  men  over  yonder 
at  the  courthouse?  A  convention  has  assembled  to  name  a 
standard  bearer.  Patriots  have  met  to  record  the  righteous  will 
of  a  sovereign  people,  but  the  details  of  the  convention  have  been 
worked  out  the  night  before  by  a  few  accommodating  politicians, 
and  a  pale-faced  statesman,  with  the  smell  of  many  beers  upon 
his  breath,  selected  to  preside  over  their  deliberations  by  the 
pug-nosed  boss  of  the  realm,  who  poses  as  the  custodian  of  the 
people's  power.  The  delegates  believe  that  it  is  their  convention, 
but  a  motion  made  by  a  sovereign  not  in  the  ring  is  instantly 
caught  upon  the  jagged  prong  of  a  pre-arranged  point  of  order 
and  pitched  over  the  parliamentary  fence  into  the  muck  pile  of 
oblivion. 

The  fair-haired  Chairman  paints  the  murky  air  with  reeking 
rhetoric  and  perfumes  it  with  patriotic  platitudes,  and  the 
sweating  delegates  wrestle  desperately  with  Reed's  Rules  of 
Order  and  there  is  a  fierce  and  furious  eruption  of  inflamed 
grammar  and  rasping  oratory  and  pandemonium  reigns  supreme 
in  the  convention.  Motions  come  thick  and  fast,  only  to  be 
stabbed  and  laid  upon  the  table.  The  deadly  point  of  order, 
that  ruthless  insti-ument  of  parliamentary  torture,  gleams  like 
the  sword  of  Damocles  and  cleaves  argaiments  asunder.  Resolu- 
tions are  born  to  be  murdered,  and  multiplied  deceased  amend- 
ments choke  and  dam  the  current  of  the  convention  like  rotten 
driftwood  in  a  stagnant  stream.     Patronage  is  the  watchword 


220  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

and  graft  the  shibboleth ;  offices  for  the  ring  and  legislation  for 
the  trust. 

There  in  the  surging  crowd  is  a  prosperous  old  farmer 
whose  cribs  at  home  are  running  over  with  plenty,  and  content- 
ment abides  at  his  hearthstone.  He  has  sung  through  the  sum- 
mer days  as  he  plowed  and  slapped  the  lines  on  his  lazy  mule ; 
but  temptation  only  yesterday  whispered  down  the  corn  rows 
and  offered  him  an  office,  and  he  stopped  and  leaned  upon  his 
plow  and  turned  the  matter  over  in  his  mind,  and  then  he 
unhitched  the  traces  and,  mounting  old  Beck,  he  left  his  crop 
and  hastened  tx)  the  convention.  The  ring  stuffs  him  with  praise 
and  liquid  adulation  until  he  begins  to  realize  his  greatness  and 
that  he  was  born  for  loftier  things  than  happiness.  They  nomi- 
nate him  by  acclamation ;  and  amid  the  shouting  and  the  yelling 
he  struts  with  awful  dignity  to  the  reverberating  forum  and 
stands  there  stroking  his  throat  whiskers  until  the  tumult  has 
quieted  down,  and  then  he  opens  up  and  pours  forth  his  elo- 
quence. 


UNCLE  SAM 


This  unfinished  masterpiece  is  an  eloquent  testimonial  to  the  marvel- 
ous versatility  of  Senator  Taylor.  He  was  the  Cicero  of  modern  orators, 
the  Michaelangelo  of  word  painters.  He  was  an  actor  and  a  humorist, 
but  he  had  an  abiding  ambition  to  add  to  his  life  productions  a  lecture  of 
more  serious  tenor,  touching  upon  the  great  characters  of  history  and  the 
tragedies  which  have  marked  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations.  It  was  that 
ambition  that  led  him  to  begin  the  preparation  of  this  lecture,  entitled 
"UNCLE  SAM."  But  before  he  had  time  to  unfold  it  from  his  brain  he 
fell  asleep. 


UNCLE  SAM 

Away  back  yonder  in  the  dying  hours  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, when  monarchs  held  their  sway  beyond  the  seas,  and  when 
the  spirit  of  revolution  had  sounded  the  tocsin  of  war  upon  our 
own  shores,  there  strode  out  from  the  smoke  and  flamo  of 
Bunker  Hill  a  colossal  figure  that  stood  on  the  horizon  of  human 
hope,  casting  his  shadow  around  the  world.  His  eaglolike 
visage  was  surmounted  with  a  bell-crowned  plug  hat  of  fur,  and 
his  chin  Avhiskers  swept  down  like  the  tail  of  a  comet  over  a 
vest  bespangled  with  stars ;  his  claw-hammer  coat  was  as  blue 
as  the  sky,  and  his  tight-fitting  pantaloons  of  red  and  white 
stripes  were  held  down  with  straps  under  his  boots.  The  earth 
trembled  under  his  tread,  and  the  angels  named  him  Uncle 
Sam. 

This  battle-born  apparition  was  no  accident — no  trick  of 
fancy,  no  wandering,  aimless  ghost.  He  was  the  embodiment  of 
a  universal  dream  which  had  played  dimly  and  fitfully  through 
ages  of  slumbering  liberty.  He  was  the  culmination  of  a  world's 
ideal.  Behind  his  high  resolve  was  the  yearning  of  centuries, 
and  from  his  falcon  eye  flashed  the  fierceness  of  a  warring  god. 
His  mission  was  one  of  deepest  tragedy — to  smite  with  equal- 
ity's sword  the  armed  and  brazen  front  of  Tyranny.  Through 
the  long,  long  years  democracy  had  dwelt  only  in  the  heart  of 
man,  but  now  it  had  suddenly  leaped  to  his  brain  and  was  be- 
coming vital  with  method  and  force.  The  principle  of  man's 
equality  is  as  old  as  history,  but  how  feebly  has  it  manifested 
itself.  Its  radiance  glinted  for  a  moment  on  the  spears  of 
Alexander's  soldiers  in  the  burning  desert,  when  their  godlike 
king  disdainfully  cast  upon  the  sand  the  last  cup  of  water  which 
might  have  preserved  his  life  because  there  was  not  enough  for 
every  man.  It  fluttered  with  awful  prophecy  in  Caesar's  vic- 
torious banners  on  the  fateful  plains  of  Pharsalia  when  the 
remnant  of  his  diminished  legions,  drawn  from  the  common 
people,  marched  forth  to  shatter  Pompey's  mighty  host,  rep- 
resenting the  wealth,  aristocracy,  awd  power  of  Rome.     It  sank 


224  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

into  blackest  night  amid  the  bloody  orgies  of  Nero's  reign,  and 
through  the  turbulent  ages  that  followed  it  flickered  but  dimly. 
In  Shakespeare's  dramas  it  found  matchless  tongues  to  sing  to 
the  very  stars  the  dire  deeds  of  heartless  monarchs.  It  haloed 
the  immortal  Cromwell's  head,  and  shone  with  warning  above 
the  death  warrant  of  Charles  the  First ;  but  the  great  Cromwell 
could  not  bequeath  his  spirit  to  those  who  followed  him,  and  so 
kings  vaulted  to  the  human  saddle  and  rode  again — rode  madly 
into  the  eighteenth  century  and  on  into  the  twilight  of  its 
evening. 

As  this  widely  scattered  caravan  of  kings  and  cavalcade  of 
lords  moved  on  into  that  epoch-making  period,  they  smiled  at 
the  audacity  of  our  gaunt  hero  looming  above  the  discord  of 
battle.  Victory  had  not  yet  settled  upon  him,  but  determina- 
tion that  never  yields  had  measured  itself  in  the  length  of  his 
firm,  set  jaws ;  and  had  these  mighty  rulers  been  wise  astrologers 
they  could  have  read  a  fearful  prophecy  from  the  stars  that 
sprinkled  his  garments.  Sad  was  the  plight  of  mankind  on  that 
uncommon  day  as  "Uncle  Sam,"  a  new  figure  in  the  ages,  was 
straightening  himself  in  the  thunder  of  battle  to  begin  his  march 
into  history. 

Russia,  land  of  cruel  Cossacks  and  frozen  whiskers,  under 
the  reign  of  Catherine  the  Great,  was  carving  the  "stuffing"  out 
of  Turkey  and  "poling"  the  life  out  of  Poland. 

Prussia  was  purring  like  a  feasted  tiger  over  the  wide  realm 
which  the  genius  of  the  great  Frederick  had  acquired  by  the 
might  of  his  sword. 

Austria  was  bowed  under  the  iron  will  of  Maria  Theresa. 

Spain,  ancient  battleground  of  the  Romans  and  the  Car- 
thagenians,  blasted  relic  of  the  Inquisition,  was  ruled  by  Charles 
the  Third,  who  was  striving  in  vain  to  lift  the  weight  of  her 
sins. 

Italy,  prostrate  and  dismembered,  was  paying  tribute  to 
her  despoilers. 

Little  Japan,  cloistered  amid  her  cherry  blossoms,  was  wor- 
shiping Buddha  and  the  sun. 

China,  the  yellow  giant  of  the  Orient,  was  dozing  in  the 
opium  smoke  of  a  strange  and  paradoxical  civilization. 


UNCLE  SAM  225 

Egypt  was  a  conquered  province  sweating  under  the  yoke  of 
Turkey.  Egypt,  once  a  gorgeous  empire  rising  from  beyond 
the  remotest  records  of  time — land  where  the  music  of  harp  and 
flute  was  heard  two  thousand  years  before  they  wooed  the  glit- 
tering halls  of  Solomon's  temple — Egypt,  the  mother  of  un- 
solved wonders — for  four  thousand  years  the  shifting  football 
of  political  aggression,  kicked  back  and  forth  by  the  ruthless 
boot  of  war — the  most  fertile  spot  on  earth — rich  trophy  of 
despoiling  despots — plundered  garden  of  vanquished  tyrants, 

Mexico  was  marching  with  her  face  to  the  ground,  pricked 
by  the  bayonets  of  Spanish  dominion.  The  wonderful  but 
barbaric  civilizations  of  the  Toltecs  and  the  Aztecs  had  passed 
like  visions  of  blood,  and  the  rainbow  of  republican  promise 
hung  not  yet  upon  the  clouds  of  her  future. 

France,  unhappy  country,  was  blindly  approaching  a  vortex 
of  slaughter  and  death  which  would  melt  the  cold  heart  of  his- 
tory to  pity. 

England  was  the  mightiest  force  among  the  nations.  From 
Gibraltar's  frowning  brow  her  guns  scowled  upon  all  Europe, 
while  her  fleets  and  squadrons  swept  every  sea ;  she  was  driving 
the  entering  wedge  of  conquest  into  India's  golden  rim;  she 
had  bayonetted  France  out  of  Canada  and  pushed  the  frontiers 
of  her  American  colonies  westward  to  the  waters  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. Boundless  was  her  dream  of  dominion  and  bottomless 
was  the  treasure  chest  of  her  greed. 

So  were  the  nations  faring  on  June  lY,  1Y75.  The  divine 
right  of  kings  seemed  as  fixed  as  the  stars.  The  cold  glory  of 
imperial  cro^^ms  lighted  the  skies  of  the  fading  century,  while 
the  darkness  of  poverty  and  misery  fell  in  the  shadow  of  every 
throne.  The  doctrine  of  equality  was  the  essence  of  treason, 
and  political  dungeons,  like  black  cancers,  disfigured  the  fair 
bosom  of  the  earth.    But  a  new  era  was  about  to  dawn. 

On  the  wings  of  imagination  let  us  go  back  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  years,  and,  standing  with  "Uncle  Sam"  on  the  crest 
of  Bunker  Hill,  we  may  look  upon  the  most  remarkable  array 
of  characters  ever  born  in  a  single  age. 

There  is  Washington,  in  the  forty-third  year  of  his  life, 
standing  in  the  foreground,  as,  indeed,  he  must  forever  stand; 
and  by  his  side  is  Jefferson,  only  thirty-two  years  old,  yet  com- 


226  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

passing  in  his  brain  the  eternal  chart  of  human  rights  and  all 
the  principles  of  popular  government. 

Alexander  Hamilton,  still  in  his  'teens,  is  rising,  brilliant  aa 
a  star,  to  meet  Jefferson  in  a  clash  of  ideas  that  will  shake  the 
new  republic  to  its  center. 

Beyond  the  ocean  we  see  the  young  nobleman,  Lafayette, 
moving  in  the  splendor  of  the  French  court.  He,  too,  is  in  his 
'teens,  but  in  his  soul  the  Titans  of  liberty  are  holding  council, 
and  we  shall  see  him  again,  riding  in  the  belt  of  flame  which 
shall  encircle  the  field  of  Yorktown. 

Old  Ben  Franklin,  the  Nestor  of  wisdom  and  philosophy 
in  the  new  world,  has  already  coaxed  the  lightning  from  the 
clouds  and  winged  his  name  with  electricity. 

Playing  about  the  door  of  a  Southern  cabin  is  Andrew  Jack- 
son, eight  years  old.  His  hair  is  coarse,  his  face  is  thin,  but 
his  deep-set  eyes  are  the  windows  of  courage. 

On  a  far-away  island  in  the  Mediterranean,  where  tall 
mountains  rise  to  pour  their  cataracts  into  the  sea,  and  where 
the  kneeling  hills  are  sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  flowering 
vines,  behold  the  young  l^apoleon,  a  child  at  his  mother's  knee. 
Pensive  and  silent,  he  is  not  like  other  children,  even  as  he  is 
not  to  be  like  other  men.  Mark  him  well,  for  from  the  brain 
unfolding  behind  that  pallid  brow  shall  spring  an  empire.  Look 
wonderingly  on  those  little  feet,  for  they  are  already  setting 
forth  for  that  summit  of  renown  where  but  two  men  have  left 
their  footprints  since  the  flight  of  time  began.  Think  not  upon 
him  only  as  the  tyrant  which  prejudiced  and  jealous  history 
shall  paint  him,  for  when  that  delicate  hand  shall  grasp  the 
sword  that  is  yet  immolded,  its  might  will  smite  the  walls  of 
patriots'  prisons,  and  the  doors  of  their  dungeons  shall  fly 
open. 

What  a  troupe  of  actors  are  moving  behind  the  scenes  in 
ill-fated  France,  where  the  curtain  is  soon  to  rise  on  the  maddest 
tragedy  in  the  annals  of  men ! 

Young  Louis  the  Sixteenth  is  not  dreaming  of  the  guillo- 
tine and  the  lime  pit ;  and  his  beautiful  queen  recks  not  that  her 
fair  head  shall  be  chopped  from  her  shoulders. 


UNCLE   SAM  227 

The  lion-headed  Mirabeau  is  only  twenty-six,  and  his  giant 
intellect  has  not  yet  settled  to  the  task  of  inspiring  the  French 
Revolution. 

Robespierre  is  only  seventeen,  and  his  name  is  not  yet 
the  synonym  of  horror. 

Marat  is  vending  medicine  and  writing  a  book  in  the  city 
of  Paris,  while  Charlotte  Corday,  who  is  to  plunge  the  dagger 
into  his  heart,  is  a  happy  child  of  seven  summers,  playing  over 
the  green  fields  of  ISTormandy. 

Alas !  we  shall  see  all  these  again ;  and  future  ages  shall  see 
them  through  a  mist  of  blood. 

We  turn  our  eyes  to  England  and  we  see  the  venerable  Pitt 
and  the  younger  Pitt;  and  Charles  Fox  is  rising,  limiinous  as 
the  sun.  There  is  Edmund  Burke,  the  greatest  orator  since 
Demosthenes;  and  yonder,  under  a  spreading  tree,  is  old  John 
Wesley  preaching  to  a  multitude. 

The  mountains  and  hills  and  valleys  and  lakes  and  rivers 
of  Scotland  are  not  yet  made  immortal  in  story  and  song,  for 
that  baby  of  four  years  toddling  in  the  shadow  of  old  "Ben 
Lomond"  is  Walter  Scott,  and  that  boy  of  sixteen  whistling  up 
and  down  the  "bonny  banks  of  Ayr"  is  Robert  Burns. 

Such  were  the  conditions  of  the  nations  of  the  earth  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  1776.  The  American  Revolution  continued 
with  unabated  fury  until,  after  seven  years,  in  the  hardest  and 
most  imequal  battle  ever  fought  in  the  prize  ring  of  war.  Uncle 
Sam  caught  John  Bull  Avith  a  right  swing  to  the  jaw  at  York- 
town  and  sent  him  crashing  through  the  ropes  and  staggering 
backward  across  the  sea ;  and  then  strutted  out  before  the  aston- 
ished nations  the  champion  fighter  of  the  Avorld. 

In  the  short  space  of  our  national  life  we  have  wrought 
miracles  of  invention  and  discovery  which  have  revolutionized 
the  world  and  advanced  civilization  a  thousand  years  in  a 
single  century.  The  vast  wilderness  has  melted  away,  and  the 
new  continent  now  swings  between  the  seas  like  a  huge  hang- 
ing garden  of  the  beautiful.  The  old  stage  coach  and  covered 
wagon  were  consigned  to  oblivion  when  the  steam  engine  came 
pufiing  out  of  the  brain  of  American  genius,  and  the  old  sail- 
boat was  relegated  to  the  rear  when  the  mighty  steamship  went 
gliding  over  the  billows  burdened  with 


228  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L,   TAYLOR 

Poor  Romeos  and  rich  Juliettes, 
Young  lunatics  and  old  suffragettes, 

with  every  kind  of  fortune  hunter,  and  with  the  hunters  of  wild 
beasts.  If  Robert  Fulton,  the  great  inventor  of  steam  power, 
could  rise  up  from  the  dust  today  and  witness  the  evolution  of 
his  dreams ;  if  he  could  see  the  great  squadrons  of  warships  with 
their  mighty  engines  churning  the  seas  into  foam,  and  the  busy 
fleets  of  peace  swarming  every  harbor;  if  he  could  have  stood 
in  ISTew  York  two  years  ago  and  have  seen  the  great  steamship 
Kaiserine  come  steaming  into  port  with  an  ex-President  of  the 
United  States  upon  her  deck  fresh  from  the  wilds  of  Africa, 
standing  with  one  foot  upon  a  hippopotamus  and  another  on  a 
rhinoceros,  with  a  hyena  under  each  arm  and  a  python  in  his 
pocket,  leaving  the  lion  still  nursing  her  fears  and  the  widowed 
wart  hog  still  rooting  in  tears,  I  think  the  great  inventor  would 
have  instantly  embarked  on  some  invisible  Kaiserine,  and  when 
the  nozzle  touched  the  distant  shore  of  the  spirit  world  he 
would  have  stood  on  her  phantom  deck  and  shouted  to  the  ap- 
plauding angels :  "I  am  particularly  glad  to  see  you  again — 
I  am  £^ee-lighted." 

American  genius  wrought  another  miracle,  and  with  that 
strange  spirit  of  the  air  gathered  up  all  the  stories  of  hope  and 
love  in  every  land  and  under  every  sky  and  whispered  them 
around  the  world.  The  telegraph  put  the  tattling  nations  lip 
to  ear,  and  the  telephone  made  billions  smile,  and  frown,  and 
laugh,  and  weep. 

If  old  Ben  Franklin  could  come  to  the  earth  again  and  see 
the  development  of  the  spark  which  he  caught  with  his  kite  from 
the  storm  cloud,  I  think  he  would  seize  some  invisible  telephone 
and  call  up  the  angel  at  the  pearly  gate  and  say,  "Give  me 
Morse.  'Hello,  Morse !  Can  you  slip  away  from  Paradise  and 
come  down  on  a  starbeam  and  spend  an  hour  with  me  on  earth  ? 
My  discovery  and  your  invention  are  enlightening  the  world. 
Tell  Thomas  Jefferson  the  whole  country  is  going  Democratic'  " 


ADDRESSES 


While  Senator  Robert  L.  Taylor  was  serving  his  third  term 
as  Governor  of  Tennessee,  the  State  celebrated  the  one  hun- 
dredth anniversary  of  its  admission  into  the  Union.  This  Ten- 
nessee Centennial  was  celebrated  at  l^ashville,  Tennessee,  be- 
ginning May  1,  1897,  and  lasting  for  several  months.  It  de- 
volved on  him  as  "Centennial  Governor"  to  welcome  distin- 
guished visitors  from  other  States  and  deliver  addresses  on 
important  occasions.  His  speeches  created  so  much  enthusiasm 
at  the  time,  and  were  so  favorably  commented  on  by  the  press 
and  the  people,  it  has  been  decided  to  include  them  in  this  vol- 
ume, with  some  other  notable  speeches. 


ADDEESS    DELIVERED    O^    THE    OPENING    DAY, 

MAY  1,  1897. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

The  first  century  in  the  history  of  the  Commonwealth  of 
Tennessee,  glorious  with  the  deeds  of  heroes  and  rich  with 
achievements  in  all  the  arts  of  peace,  has  been  garnered  in 
eternity;  and  as  I  stand  here  to  join  you  in  this  jubilee  the 
stirring  scenes  of  a  hundred  eventful  years  pass  in  review  be- 
fore me.  I  see  the  blue  smoke  curling  heavenward  from  the 
rude  cabins  of  the  pioneers,  and  hear  the  first  song  of  civiliza- 
tion along  the  banks  of  the  Watauga.  I  see  the  red  glare  in 
the  sky  at  night  proclaiming  the  approach  of  torch  and  toma- 
hawk. I  see  the  peerless  "Bonnie  Kate,"  like  a  frightened 
mountain  fawn,  outstripping  the  painted  warriors  in  her  race 
for  life;  and  amid  the  flames  and  smoke  from  Deckard  rifles, 
which  baffle  the  savage  foe,  I  see  her  scale  the  parapets  of  the 
beleaguered  fort  and  fall  fainting  into  the  arms  of  John  Sevier. 
I  see  a  thousand  coon-skin  caps  gathering  at  Sycamore  Shoals, 
and  a  thousand  rifles  reflecting  a  thousand  sparkling  images  of 
the  rising  sun.  I  see  a  thousand  stalwart  mountaineers  suddenly 
vanish  into  the  forest,  and  now  I  see  them  emerge  around  the 
base  of  King's  Mountain.  Winding  upward  toward  its  sum- 
mit like  a  serpent  of  fire,  they  pour  their  withering  volleys  into 
the  faces  of  the  foe.  The  brave  redcoats  fall  like  the  leaves  of 
autumn,  the  battle  is  won,  and  the  tide  of  the  Revolution  is 
turned.  The  scene  changes,  and  now  I  see  the  ax  gleaming  in 
the  hands  of  these  sturdy  men;  the  forest  falls,  and  fruitful 
fields  spread  westward  from  the  mountains  to  the  Mississippi. 
A  new  State  is  carved  from  the  heart  of  the  wilderness,  the 
sixteenth  star  glorifies  the  flag  of  the  Union,  and  Tennessee 
is  bom. 

The  years  roll  on,  and  the  young  republic  of  civil  liberty 
gives  birth  to  a  new  republic  of  thought.  Men  like  Jefferson 
and  Jackson  rise  up  and  revolutionize  the  political  ideas  of  the 
world;  men  like  Franklin,  and  Fulton,  and  Morse,  and  Howe, 


232  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L,    TAYLOR 

I 

I 

and  Hoe,  and  Whitney,  and  Bell,  and  Tesla,  and  Edison,  open 
up  new  highways  for  the  march  of  civilization. 

I  see  the  vast  wilderness  of  America,  the  dominion  of  sav- 
age Indian  and  wild  beast,  yielding  to  the  brain  and  prowess  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race  until  forty-five  stars  on  our  national  flag 
symbolize  the  strength  and  power  and  unity  of  the  greatest  re- 
public this  world  has  ever  known.  I  see  the  achievements  of  a 
thousand  years  crowded  into  a  single  century. 

If  our  fathers,  who  died  a  hundred  years  ago,  could  come 
back  from  "the  tongueless  silence  of  the  dreamless  dust"  and 
see  the  miracles  that  have  been  wrought ;  if  they  could  see  their 
children  talking  across  the  ocean  and  sweeping  across  continents 
in  palace  cars  swifter  than  the  swiftest  wing;  if  they  could  see 
the  modern  reapers  sweeping  like  phantom  ships  through  seas 
of  sunset  gold,  and  hear  the  music  of  the  harvest  song ;  if  they 
could  catch  glimpses  of  the  myriads  of  cities  and  towns  and 
country  homes  which  are  the  habitations  of  seventy  millions  of 
people ;  if  they  could  look  upon  this  beautiful  White  Centennial 
City,  rising  like  a  beautiful  dream  here  in  the  heart  of  Ten- 
nessee, under  whose  wings  the  nations  of  the  earth  are  gather- 
ing to  join  us  in  this  glorious  jubilee,  I  doubt  not  they  would 
shout  for  joy  and  sing  with  us :  "Praise  God,  from  whom  all 
blessings  flow." 


ADDEESS  ON  TENNESSEE  AND  GOVERNOK'S  DAY, 

JUNE  1, 1897. 

This  is  the  natal  day  of  Tennessee.  This  day  one  hundred 
and  one  years  ago  the  sixteenth  child  of  the  Union  was  bom. 
No  flag  ever  floated  over  a  fairer  land.  History  does  not 
record  the  deeds  of  braver  men,  and  poets  have  never  sung  of 
women  more  beautiful  than  those  of  Tennessee.  When  I  am 
in  the  North  I  sigh  for  the  warmer  sunshine  and  sweeter  flowers 
of  Tennessee;  when  I  am  in  the  far  South  I  sigh  to  rest  me 
again  in  the  cool  shades  of  my  native  Tennessee  mountains, 
where  the  balmy  breezes  blow  and  where  bright  streams  fall 
from  lofty  heights  and  sing  to  the  rivers  and  the  rivers  sing  on 
to  the  sea. 


ADDRESSES  233 

Tennessee  lies  on  the  happiest  lines  of  latitude  and  longitude 
that  girdle  the  globe.  It  lies  on  the  dividing  line  between  the 
North  and  the  South,  and  it  combines  the  climate  and  products 
of  both.  I  sometimes  think  that  when  the  Lord  God  Almighty 
banished  Adam  and  Eve  from  Paradise,  loath  to  destroy  its 
glories  and  its  beauties,  he  transferred  them  all  to  Tennessee; 
and  here,  amid  its  luscious  fruits  and  gorgeous  flowers,  I  greet 
this  happy  throng  and  give  them  a  hearty  welcome  to  the  birth- 
day party  of  the  fairest  queen  in  all  the  loyal  sisterhood  of 
States. 

I  would  not  wound  the  heart  of  any  other  State,  but  this  is 
Tennessee  Day  and  I  am  a  Tennessean.  I  believe  in  local 
patriotism,  which  loves  home  better  than  any  other  spot  on 
earth.  I  love  Tennessee  better  than  any  other  State  in  the 
Union  because  it  is  my  home. 

But  I  must  not  forget  my  delightful  duty.  I  must  not  for- 
get the  pleasing  proprieties  of  this  glorious  occasion.  My  duty 
is  to  welcome,  with  opens  arms,  in  the  name  of  Tennessee,  our 
guests — especially  the  ladies.  The  proprieties  of  the  occasion 
demand  that,  while  we  pay  tribute  to  Tennessee,  we  must  give 
honor  and  praise  and  glory  to  the  great  Commonwealths  whose 
distinguished  sons  and  daughters  have  come  to  join  us  in  our 
jubilee.  Although  the  first  month  of  our  great  exposition,  like 
the  first  happy  hour  of  the  banquet,  has  passed  away,  the  festivi- 
ties have  only  begun.  Only  the  first  course  has  been  served. 
The  viands  and  delicious  herbs,  the  rapturous  wines,  the  kisses, 
the  cakes  and  creams — all  come  today.  For  North  Carolina, 
cakes  and  creams  and  kisses ;  for  South  Carolina,  creams,  kisses 
and  cakes;  and  for  all  the  other  States  represented  here  today, 
kisses,  and  cakes,  and  creams,  and  kisses,  and  kisses,  and  kisses ; 
and  for  each  and  every  one,  old  and  young,  big  and  little,  rich 
and  poor  alike,  a  genuine,  old-fashioned  Tennessee  welcome. 

The  past,  with  all  its  discoveries  and  all  its  glorious  achieve- 
ments, lies  spread  out  here  before  us  in  epitome.  Who  can  tell 
what  another  century  will  unfold  ?  I  think  I  see  a  vision  of  the 
future  opening  before  me.  I  see  triumphs  in  art  and  achieve- 
ments in  science  undreamed  of  by  the  artisans  and  philosophers 
of  the  past.     I  see  the  sun  darkened  by  clouds  of  men  and 

(16) 


234  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

women  flying  in  the  air.  I  see  throngs  of  passengers  entering 
electric  tubes  in  New  York  and  emerging  in  San  Francisco  two 
hours  before  they  started.  I  see  the  gloved  and  umbrellaed 
leaders  of  the  Populist  party  sitting  in  their  horseless  carriages 
and  singing  the  harvest  song,  while  the  self-adjusting,  automatic 
reapers  sweep  unattended  through  the  fields,  cutting  and  bind- 
ing and  shocking  the  golden  grain.  I  see  swarms  of  foreign 
pauper  dukes  and  counts  kissing  our  American  millionaire  girls 
across  the  ocean  through  the  kissophone.  I  see  the  women 
marching  in  bloomers  to  the  ballot  box  and  the  men  at  home 
singing  lullabies  to  the  squalling  babies.  I  see  every  Repub- 
lican in  America  drawing  a  pension,  every  Democrat  holding 
an  office,  and  every  "cullud  pusson"  riding  on  a  free  pass ;  and 
then  I  think  the  millennium  will  be  near  at  hand. 

But  I  am  again  about  to  forget  my  duty ;  I  am  again  about 
to  forget  the  proprieties  of  the  occasion.  My  duty  is  to  wel- 
come our  distinguished  guests,  and  the  rules  of  the  occasion  are 
to  make  them  happy. 

South  Carolina,  the  land  of  the  brave  and  true !  God  pours 
out  his  floods  of  sunshine  upon  her  hills  and  fields.  In  her 
shady  coves  the  mocking  bird  sings  his  sweetest  song,  and  bright 
waters  ripple  in  eternal  melody. 

But  who  will  chide  me  if  I  speak  tenderly  of  North  Caro- 
lina, the  mother  of  Tennessee  ?  We  love  her  for  the  history  she 
has  made;  we  love  her  for  the  statesmen  she  has  produced;  we 
love  her  for  her  heroes,  whose  names  shall  live  forever  in  song 
and  story;  we  love  her  for  the  sake  of  her  orators  and  poets, 
who  have  enriched  the  literature  of  the  world ;  we  love  her  be- 
cause our  people  are  bound  to  her  people  by  the  sacred  ties  of 
blood,  and  because  her  sons  and  the  sons  of  Tennessee  have 
suffered  and  died  together  on  many  a  battle  field. 


ADDRESSES  235 

ADDKESS  TO  THE  DRUMMERS  ON  NATIONAL  TRAV- 
ELERS' PROTECTIVE  ASSOCIATION  DAY, 
JUNE  4,  1897. 

Gentlemen  of  the  Travelers'  Protective  Association: 

In  the  name  of  the  whole  State  of  Tennessee,  in  the  name 
of  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  it,  I  welcome  you  today 
with  all  the  cordiality  contained  in  that  one  word — "welcome." 
You  are  traveling  men,  but  you  have  never  traveled  over  a  land 
where  welcomes  grew  more  luxuriantly  than  in  the  beautiful 
land  we  call  Tennessee.  You  have  seen  much  of  this  world, 
but  you  have  never  beheld  a  spot  where  you  were  more  welcome 
than  the  capital  city  of  Tennessee,  where  every  heart  throb  is  a 
welcome  to  your  coming  and  where  every  breath  will  be  a  sigh 
of  sorrow  when  you  leave  us. 

If  welcomes  were  flowers,  I  would  give  every  traveling  man 
in  America  an  armful  of  American  Beauties;  I  would  pin  on 
every  lapel  a  cape  jessamine,  and  Nashville  would  be  a  wilder- 
ness of  bouquets  today. 

If  human  hearts  were  banquet  halls,  I  would  welcome  every 
traveling  man  to  mine.  I  would  banquet  them  on  milk  and 
honey — the  milk  of  human  kindness  and  the  honey  of  human 
happiness ;  and  they  should  drink  deep  of  the  wine  of  brotherly 
love.  If  my  heartstrings  were  harp  strings,  I  would  make  the 
music  for  the  traveling  men  which  the  angels  made  for  the  first 
happy  pair  in  the  Paradise  of  long  ago.  If  my  words  could  be 
coined  into  silver  and  gold,  I  would  give  every  traveling  man 
ten  thousand  dollars  a  year  at  the  ratio  of  sixteen  to  one. 

The  traveling  men  are  the  advertising  agents  of  all  the  goods 
and  wares  of  mankind.  They  are  the  advance  guards  of  Gen- 
eral Prosperity,  but  I  fear  they  are  now  temporarily  cut  off 
from  the  main  column  by  the  forces  of  General  Hard  Times. 

The  world  does  not  appreciate  the  traveling  men.  They  are 
the  very  lifeblood  of  our  civilization ;  they  are  political  econo- 
mists ;  they  are  politicians ;  they  are  diplomats ;  they  are  expert 
accountants ;  they  are  lawyers ;  they  are  working  men. 

The  traveling  man  can  labor  all  day  with  his  hands  and  his 
head,  and  then  put  on  the  swallow-tail  and  patent  leathers  in 
the  evening,  and,  with  his  song  and  sweet  converse,  charm  the 


236  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

most  refined  circles  of  fashionable  society.  He  is  the  thermom- 
eter and  barometer  of  nations.  When  prosperity  follows  in  hia 
wake,  the  nations  are  prosperous;  when  hard  times  drive  him 
home,  it  is  a  sure  sign  of  poverty  among  the  masses. 

I  love  the  drummer  for  his  versatility;  I  love  him  for  the 
sacrifices  he  has  made  and  for  the  happiness  he  has  given  to  the 
world.  The  women  love  the  drummer,  not  only  because  he  is 
brave  and  gallant  and  genial,  but  because  he  is  as  graceful  in 
overalls  as  in  the  swallow-tail ;  and,  above  all,  they  love  him  for 
the  happy  homes  he  has  made. 

Distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view;  and,  therefore,  the 
wives  and  sweethearts  of  the  drummers  are  constantly  enchanted 
by  their  husbands  and  their  beaux. 

Be  it  said  to  the  honor  of  the  craft  that  there  is  less  drunken- 
ness among  those  who  carry  the  grip  than  in  any  other  profes- 
sion under  the  sun,  except  the  preachers.  If  I  were  a  young 
lady,  I  would  marry  a  drummer,  not  only  because  he  moves  the 
world  with  his  snap,  and  grip,  and  push,  but  because  he  is  the 
prettiest  thing  on  God's  footstool. 

If  I  were  a  sculptor,  I  would  chisel  from  the  marble  my  ideal 
of  a  man.  I  would  make  it  the  figure  of  a  drummer  with  hia 
grip.  If  I  were  a  painter,  I  would  paint  a  picture  of  Jacob's 
ladder,  and  upon  its  golden  rungs  I  would  paint  the  angelic 
form  of  a  drummer  ascending  and  descending  with  the  best 
line  of  harps  on  the  market  to  sell  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
celestial  world. 

God  bless  the  drummers!  They  are  the  personification  of 
Christian  endeavor,  and  all  they  need  is  pink  tights  and  gauze 
wings  to  make  them  equal  to  the  cherubim  and  seraphim.  Who 
can  imagine  a  vision  more  sublime  than  innumerable  drummers 
flying  through  the  air,  with  their  gripsacks  in  their  hands,  div- 
ing and  snorting  among  the  clouds  like  porpoises  in  midocean? 

"The  drummer  wears  no  golden  wings ; 
Round  this  merry  world  he  swings, 
Sweetly  laughs  and  softly  sings, 
Sells  his  goods  and  wares  and  things." 


ADDRESSES  237 

ADDKESS   OX   OHIO   AND   M'KINLEY  DAY,   JUNE 

11,  1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

With  uncovered  heads  and  patriotic  pride  we  welcome  the 
President  of  the  United  States  and  all  who  accompany  him  to 
the  warm,  throbbing  heart  of  Dixie. 

It  has  been  whispered  abroad  that  we  have  too  much  sun- 
shine in  the  South,  and  that  its  effect  is  to  render  the  people 
lazy  and  thriftless.  It  is  believed  by  millions  of  misguided 
men  who  dwell  in  our  Northern  suburbs,  especially  in  the  rural 
States  of  Ohio,  Michigan  and  New  York,  that,  in  this  warm 
southern  climate,  energy  evaporates.  But  our  honored  guests 
shall  see  today  a  complete  refutation  of  the  soft  impeachment. 
They  shall  see  the  triumphs  of  our  brain  and  bra\\m  and  the 
tangible  evidences  of  our  activity.  And  some  of  them  who  saw 
our  ruined  country  thirty  years  ago  will  certainly  appreciate 
the  fact  that  we  have  wrought  miracles.  If  they  will  only  look, 
they  shall  be  living  witnesses  of  the  victories  we  have  won. 

The  grass  now  grows  green  where  but  a  few  years  ago  Death 
sat  on  the  pale  horse  beckoning  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  to  the 
opening  grave,  and  the  roses  now  bloom  where  heroes  once  bled. 

In  this  land  of  battle  fields  and  monuments ;  in  this  land  of 
memories,  touching  as  the  soldier's  last  tear  on  the  white  bosom 
of  his  manhood's  bride ;  in  this  land  of  beauty  and  of  sorrow, 
where  the  white  tents  of  armies  once  shrouded  the  hills,  new 
cities  have  been  built  in  a  quarter  of  a  century ;  and  this  splendid 
industrial  exposition,  which  is  a  prophecy  of  our  glory  and 
power  in  the  future,  now  blossoms  like  a  beautiful  flower  in  the 
track  of  war,  and  is  a  token  of  eternal  peace  and  brotherhood 
between  the  two  sections. 

Tennessee  clasps  hands  with  Ohio  today,  and  the  North  and 
the  South  are  one  and  inseparable.  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  is 
still  there;  but,  thank  God,  it  is  no  longer  the  open  mouth  of 
death  which  once  swallowed  up  the  best  and  bravest  sons  of  the 
Nation.  Time  has  closed  its  bloody  lips,  and  now  it  is  the  red 
scar  of  honor  across  the  breast  of  the  Republic  which  marks  the 
unity  of  our  once  divided  country. 


238  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

We  greet  our  guests  with  the  ardent  hope  that  every  hour 
of  their  mingling  with  our  people  may  be  as  sweet  as  a  song 
and  delightful  as  a  glass  of  sparkling  wine. 

I  believe  in  these  industrial  expositions.  They  are  the  flowera 
of  progTess ;  they  are  the  bouquets  of  civilization ;  they  are  the 
garlands  of  peace  gathered  from  the  gardens  of  human  brains 
and  human  hearts ;  and  they  only  bloom  in  the  most  enlightened 
centers  of  the  world.  They  deserve  the  encouragement  of  the 
rulers  of  nations,  because  they  are  the  conservators  of  peace  and 
good-will  among  men. 

I  congratulate  my  State,  and  the  South,  and  the  whole  coun- 
try, upon  the  fact  that  the  ruler  of  the  greatest  Nation  in  the 
world,  accompanied  by  the  first  lady  in  the  land,  and  by  mem- 
bers of  his  Cabinet,  and  others  who  are  distinguished  in  the 
councils  of  the  I^ation,  prompted  by  their  loyal  zeal  for  the 
happiness  of  the  people  and  the  development  of  our  wealth,  have 
stolen  away  from  the  patriotic  pilgrims  who  still  linger  in  Wash- 
ington, pining  for  the  President's  autograph,  to  listen  to  the 
music  of  Southern  progress  and  see  the  salvation  of  the  Lord. 

I  pledge  them  the  honor  of  Tennessee  that  while  they  re- 
main in  our  borders  the  tariff  question  shall  be  outlawed  by  our 
hospitality  and  the  money  question  shall  be  strangled  by  our 
courtesy;  and  when  they  depart  from  us  we  will  pin  upon  the 
lapels  of  the  President  and  each  one  of  his  party  a  sweet  forget- 
me-not. 


ADDEESS  OP    WELCOME  BY  GOVERI^OR  TAYLOR, 
ON  TEXAS  DAY,  AT  TENNESSEE  CEN- 
TENNIAL, JUNE  23,  1897. 

As  the  Centennial  Governor  of  the  "Volunteer  State,"  in  the 
name  of  our  two  million  of  people,  I  give  a  cordial  welcome  to 
Texas.  There  is  not  another  State  in  the  Union  better  loved  by 
Tennesseans  than  the  great  Empire  State  of  Texas.  And  why 
should  Tennesseans  not  love  Texas  ?  We  are  inseparably  bound 
together  by  the  ties  of  blood.  Tennessee  gave  Texas  old  Sam 
Houston  to  lead  the  little  republic  into  the  sisterhood  of  States, 
and  Tennessee  gave  Texas  Da\^  Crockett  to  teach  Texans  how 


ADDRESSES  239 

to  die  for  their  country.  A  long  list  of  names  whose  statesman- 
ship in  peace  and  whose  valor  in  war  have  added  to  the  glory 
of  this  republic  has  been  given  by  this  old  mother  of  great  men  to 
that  State,  which  will  soon  be  the  richest,  the  most  prosperous, 
and  the  most  powerful  in  the  Federal  Union. 

I  know  whereof  I  speak,  for  mine  eyes  have  seen  its  glory. 
I  have  seen  Texas  from  Texarkana  to  Galveston  and  from  Mar- 
shall to  Wichita  Falls.  I  have  felt  the  warmth  of  its  sunshine 
and  the  rigor  of  its  blizzards.  An  old  Texan  once  told  me  it  was 
the  quickest  climate  in  the  world.  He  said  that  an  old  farmer 
was  driving  along  one  day ;  his  team  was  composed  of  oxen ;  and 
it  was  so  hot  that  one  of  the  oxen  fell  dead  from  sunstroke,  and, 
while  he  was  skinning  him,  the  other  one  froze  to  death. 

I  have  looked  out  upon  the  rolling  prairies  of  Texas  in  the 
springtime,  when  the  prairie  flowers  were  in  bloom,  and  thought 
I  was  sailing  through  the  scented  isles  of  the  long-lost  Paradise. 
There  I  have  sailed  and  sailed  and  sailed  across  landscapes  of 
gorgeous  beauty,  and  through  cross-timbers  of  gorgeous  length, 
until  I  landed  upon  a  typical  Texas  sand  bank,  where  the  fleas 
are  so  thick  that  the  engineer  pulls  his  train  up  and  has  the  flat 
cars  loaded  with  sand ;  and  when  he  gets  to  the  place  where  the 
sand  has  to  be  unloaded,  he  gives  his  engine  a  toot  or  two  and 
the  whole  thing  hops  off. 

And  then  from  the  sand  bank  of  fleas  I  have  dashed  through 
archipelagoes  of  fruits  and  flowers,  and  over  almost  boundless 
fields  of  coal  and  exhaustless  mines  of  iron,  until  I  was  lost  in 
her  great  pine  forests,  which  could  furnish  timber  enough  for 
the  whole  world  for  a  thousand  years  without  making  a  gap  in 
the  forest.  I  have  found  my  way  out  of  her  timber  and  trav- 
eled for  a  week  at  a  time  through  the  cotton  fields,  which  pro- 
duce a  bale  per  acre,  and  the  acres  are  innumerable.  I  have 
looked  out  upon  her  vast  landscapes  of  oats  and  corn  until  T 
wished  I  were  a  horse  or  a  Texas  steer,  with  all  the  privileges 
of  the  aforesaid  and  the  same. 

I  am  glad  to  welcome  this  delegation  of  Texans  to  Ten- 
nessee, where  the  horses  jump  further  than  old  Bill  ever  jumped, 
and  where  the  women  are  as  beautiful  as  Mahomet's  vision  of 
heaven.  Tennessee  is  specially  glad  to  receive  to  her  bosom 
the  last  surviving  member  of  the  Confederate  Cabinet,  whose 


240  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

name  will  live  forever  in  the  history  of  his  country — John  H. 
Reagan — whom  Tennessee  loaned  to  Texas,  and  whom  Texas  has 
loved  too  well  to  ever  return  the  loan.  I  trust  that  the  evening 
of  his  life  may  be  calm  and  beautiful,  and  that  the  twilight 
may  reach  far  into  the  twentieth  century. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  "Lone  Star  State,"  we  welcome 
you  to  our  hearts  and  homes. 


ADDEESS    OF    WELCOME    TO    THE    EX-CONFED- 

EEATES,  AT  EX-COIv^FEDERATE  REUNION, 

ON  CONFEDERATE  DAY,  JUNE  24,  1897. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

Why  need  I  say  welcome  to  the  men  of  the  South  ?  Every 
heart  in  Tennessee  throbs  welcome  to  you,  and  every  loyal  home 
smiles  a  welcome.  I  think  if  I  could  draw  back  the  veil  which 
separates  immortality  from  this  vale  of  tears  you  would  see  a 
vision  of  your  old  comrades,  who  have  answered  to  the  roll 
call  of  eternity,  crowding  the  air,  and  you  would  hear  them 
shout:  "Welcome,  thrice  welcome!" 

I  love  to  live  in  the  land  of  Dixie,  under  the  soft  Southern 
skies,  where  Summer  pours  out  her  flood  of  sunshine  and 
showers  and  the  generous  earth  smiles  with  plenty.  I  love  to 
live  on  Southern  soil,  where  the  cotton  fields  wave  their  white 
banners  of  peace  and  the  wheat  fields  wave  back  their  banners 
of  gold  from  the  hills  and  valleys  which  were  once  drenched  with 
the  blood  of  heroes.  I  love  to  breathe  the  Southern  air  that 
comes  filtered  through  jungles  of  roses,  whispering  the  story  of 
Southern  deeds  of  bravery.  I  love  to  drink  from  Southern 
springs  and  Southern  babbling  brooks,  which  once  cooled  the 
lips  of  Lee  and  Jackson  and  Forrest  and  Gordon,  and  the  worn 
and  weary  columns  of  brave  men  who  wore  the  gray.  I  love 
to  live  among  Southern  men  and  women,  where  every  heart  is 
as  warm  as  the  Southern  sunshine  and  every  home  is  a  temple 
of  love  and  liberty. 

I  love  to  listen  to  the  sweet  old  Southern  melodies,  which 
touch  the  soul  and  melt  the  heart  and  awaken  to  life  ten  thou- 


ADDRESSES  24I 

sand  precious  memories  of  the  happy  long  ago,  when  the  old- 
time  darkies  used  to  laugh  and  sing  and  when  the  old-time  black 
"mammy"  soothed  the  children  to  slumber  with  her  lullabies. 
But — O ! — the  music  that  thrills  me  most  is  the  melody  that 
died  away  on  the  lips  of  many  a  Confederate  soldier  as  he  sank 
into  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking : 

"I'm  glad  I  am  in  Dixie." 

Look  yonder  at  those  flashing  domes  and  glittering  spires; 
look  at  the  works  of  art  and  all  the  fabrics  and  pictured  tapes- 
tries of  beauty ;  look  what  Southern  brains  and  Southern  hands 
have  wrought;  see  the  victories  of  peace  we  have  won,  all  rep- 
resented within  the  white  columns  of  our  great  industrial  expo- 
sition, and  you  will  receive  an  inspiration  of  the  old  South, 
and  you  will  catch  glimpses  of  her  future  glory. 

I  trust  in  God  that  the  struggles  of  the  future  will  be  the 
struggles  of  peace  and  not  of  war. 


ADDKESS  ON  GEORGIA  DAY,  JUNE  26,  1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

Day  after  day  and  week  after  week  we  have  watched  with 
joy  the  tides  of  humanity  ebb  and  flow  through  the  gates  of  this 
beautiful  White  City. 

Today  a  bright  wave  comes  rolling  up  from  Georgia,  bearing 
upon  its  crest  the  eloquent  and  irrepressible  Governor  of  that 
glorious  Commonwealth  and  his  gorgeous  staff  of  Colonels, 
and  a  bevy  of  as  beautiful  women  as  the  sun  in  heaven  ever 
shone  upon.  N'o  tide  more  welcome  has  ever  yet  swept  through 
our  gates,  and  w^e  gi-eet  our  honored  guests  with  smiles  and  sun- 
shine and  music,  and  with  all  the  warmth  and  gladness  of  our 
Southern  hearts  and  all  the  hospitality  of  our  homes.  It  is  a 
beautiful  time  for  Georgia  to  visit  Tennessee.  It  is  the  time 
when  Spring  pillows  her  head  in  the  lap  of  Summer  and  is 
lulled  to  sleep  among  the  roses  and  honeysuckles  by  the  music 
of  the  happy  harvest  song;  it  is  the  time  when  the  souls  of 
lovers  melt  together  in  a  single  thought  and  their  hearts  beat 
in  unison  to  the  rapturous  melody  of  love ;  it  is  the  time  when 


242  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

the  happy  children  love  to  chase  the  butterflies  among  the  pop- 
pies ;  it  is  the  time  when  the  cows  come  home  in  the  evening 
fragrant  with  the  breath  of  clover  blossoms;  it  is  the  time 
when  the  humming  bird  hums  and  the  woodpecker  drums  and 
the  bumblebee  bumbles  around. 

Here  amid  these  busy  scenes  of  life,  amid  the  temples  of 
hope  and  memory,  where  prophecies  of  the  future  blossom 
among  the  triumphs  of  the  past,  we  welcome  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Georgia,  the  land  of  monuments  and  memories, 
the  land  whose  thought  and  genius  have  enriched  the  literature 
of  the  world — Georgia,  the  home  of  Robert  Toombs,  the  intel- 
lectual giant  of  the  old  South ;  and  Alexander  Stephens,  the  idol 
of  the  country ;  and  old  Ben  Hill,  the  gTand  incarnation  of  mind 
and  magnetism;  and  Howell  Cobb,  the  true  and  great;  and 
Gordon,  the  thunderbolt  of  war  and  the  evangel  of  peace; 
and  Grady,  whose  genius  blazed  but  for  a  moment,  like  a  bril- 
liant star,  and  then  disappeared  forever,  ere  he  had  reached 
the  full  meridian  of  his  glory.  No  State  in  this  Union  has 
furnished  more  brains  than  Georgia,  no  State  has  furnished 
more  courage.  If  our  industrial  exposition  is  a  triumph,  we 
must  not  forget  that  Georgia  opened  the  way  two  years  ago 
with  the  first  great  international  exposition  ever  held  in  the 
South. 

I  think  that  Georgia  was  the  original  Garden  of  Eden  and 
Atlanta  was  its  jasper  gate.  I  think  that  it  is  still  the  love- 
jasper  gate.  I  still  think  that  it  is  the  loveliest  flower  in  the 
Southern  bouquet,  except  this  "daisy"  which  we  call  Tennessee. 
Georgia  is  the  land  of  peaches  and  pears,  and  watermelons  with 
brittle  pulps  of  deep  carnation,  and  cotton  and  persimmons,  and 
'possums  and  sweet  potatoes.  It  is  the  land  where  the  grapevine 
gets  drunk  on  the  wine  of  its  own  purple  clusters  and  staggers 
around  over  whole  plantations,  and  fills  to  the  brim  the  flow- 
ing bowls  of  Majors  and  Colonels.  It  is  the  land  of  literature 
and  culture.  Politeness  grows  on  the  trees  and  good  manners 
bloom  in  every  home. 

Down  in  Rome  a  pompous  old  justice  of  the  peace  used  to 
yell  at  the  darkies  when  they  entered  his  court :  "Take  off  your 
hat!"  And  he  had  a  parrot  in  the  room  which  learned  to  yell: 
"Take  off  your  hat !"    An  old  darkey  entered  one  day  when  the 


ADDRESSES  243 

'Squire  wds  out,  and  the  parrot  yelled  at  him :    "Take  off  your 
hat  I" 

The  darky  looked  around  in  astonishment.  The  parrot 
yelled  at  him  again:  ''Take  off  your  hat!"  The  darkey  re- 
moved his  hat  and  bowed  to  the  parrot  and  said :  "Excuse  me, 
boss ;  I  thought  you  was  a  bird." 

If  ever  I  leave  Tennessee,  I  will  go  to  Georgia  to  live.  God 
bless  Georgia! 


ADDRESS  ON  NEW  ORLEANS  AND  LOUISIANA  DAY, 

AUGUST  10, 1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

Our  doors  and  arms  and  hearts  are  open  wide  today  to  re- 
ceive wuth  joyous  welcome  the  brave  men  and  fair  women  of  the 
sun-crowned  Commonwealth  of  Louisiana.  I  have  stood  here 
day  after  day  giving  welcome  to  Governors,  Presidents,  Cabi- 
nets, brotherhoods,  to  youth  and  old  age,  and  to  the  beauty  and 
chivalry  of  the  nation ;  but  the  storehouse  of  our  hospitality  is 
still  full,  and  w^e  have  reserved  the  warmest  and  tenderest  wel- 
come for  Louisiana,  the  w^hite-bosomed,  sugar-lipped  queen  of 
the  South,  upon  -whose  fair  brow,  like  a  jeweled  crown,  glitters 
the  Crescent  City,  "The  Paree  of  La  Belle  Louisiana" — New 
Orleans,  the  joy  and  pride,  and  the  only  city  in  the  wide,  wide 
world,  in  the  estimation  of  every  son  of  a  Pelican. 

Our  brightest  flowers  bloom  today  for  Louisiana,  and  she 
shall  listen  to  music  as  soft  and  sweet  as  "summer  evening's 
latest  sigh  that  shuts  the  rose."  Every  foot  of  Tennessee  soil 
shall  be  under  her  dominion,  and  she  shall  be  ruler  in  our 
capital  and  in  our  hearts;  every  form  of  beauty  and  all  these 
gems  of  thought  and  fruits  of  labor  lie  spread  out  here  at  the 
feet  of  Louisiana  for  her  pleasure  and  enjoyment  today;  and 
these  domes  and  turrets  and  snowy  gables  shall  blaze  with  a 
million  lights  for  her  tonight;  and  she  shall  look  upon  the 
gorgeous  scene  and  wonder  if  the  angels  have  spilt  a  basket 
of  stars. 


244  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

There  has  always  been  a  tender  tie  between  Louisiana  and 
Tennessee,  ever  since  "Old  Hickory"  marched  his  Tennesseans 
to  iSTew  Orleans  and  at  a  single  blow  prostrated  the  lion  of 
England  at  the  feet  of  the  American  eagle  and  punctuated  the 
last  hour  of  English  rule  in  America  with  a  bloody  period. 
The  tie  grew  stronger  when  Louisiana's  noblest  and  bravest 
son,  "Old  Rough  and  Ready"  Zachary  Taylor,  led  our  Tennessee 
volunteers  heart  to  heart  and  hip  to  hip  with  the  volunteers  of 
Louisiana  to  glory  and  to  victory  on  the  bloody  fields  of  Mexico. 
The  tie  grew  stronger  still  when  the  flower  of  Louisiana  and  the 
flower  of  Tennessee  put  on  the  gray  and  fought  and  died  together 
under  the  Stars  and  Bars  of  Dixie. 

We  know  the  story  of  Louisiana's  valor  and  chivalry.  It  is 
blended  with  the  fame  and  glory  of  Tennessee's  heroes  on  the 
most  pathetic  page  of  history.  We  know  the  part  that  was 
played  by  the  Washington  Artillery  in  the  awful  drama  of 
war.  The  grave  of  every  gallant  soldier  of  that  peerless  legion 
who  fell  in  the  struggle  is  a  volume  within  itself  of  wild  and 
thrilling  adventure.  It  may  be  a  forgotten  grave,  unmarked 
and  lost  forever  from  mortal  eyes ;  yet  wherever  it  is,  it  cradles 
the  dust  of  as  knightly  a  knight  as  ever  died  in  battle,  and  I 
think  the  angels  of  God  hover  about  it,  keeping  watch  until 
the  resurrection  morning.  All  honor  to  the  heroic  dead,  and 
may  God  bless  and  prosper  the  living ! 

This  splendid  exposition  is  not  only  an  object-lesson  which 
reveals  to  the  world  the  triumphs  of  our  courage  and  energy 
and  the  glory  of  our  material  wealth,  but  it  is  the  loadstar  which 
attracts  the  people  of  every  section  hither;  and  these  great 
gatherings  wipe  out  sectional  lines  and  provincial  prejudices 
and  give  birth  to  a  better  and  broader  citizenship  throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  our  country.  It  brings  the  veterans 
of  war  together  to  live  over  again  the  dark  and  dreadful  days 
that  tried  men's  souls  and  to  tell  forgotten  stories  which  were 
once  told  around  the  camp  fires  long  ago.  It  brings  the  young 
together  to  talk  about  the  happy  tomorrows,  and  the  glorious 
years  that  are  to  come,  and  to  whisper  to  each  other,  not  the 
stories  of  war,  but  that  other  story  which  was  first  told  in  Eden, 
then  handed  down  through  all  the  ages — "the  old,  old  story  of 
love." 


ADDRESSES  245 

Young  ladies  of  this  brilliant  Louisiana  legion,  have  you 
never  heard  the  story  of  love,  and  have  you  never  told  it  back 
again  to  some  shipA\Tecked  brother  ?  If  you  have  not,  beware. 
There  are  young  men,  handsome  as  Apollo,  here,  and  bald- 
headed  bachelors,  and  widowers,  and  gondolas,  and  the  light  oi 
the  moon,  all  within  the  confines  of  this  beautiful  White  City; 
and  I  doubt  not  that  before  your  fair  forms  and  sweet  faces 
shall  vanish  from  our  midst  you  will  hear  mingling  w'ith  the 
soft  music  of  bands  and  the  gentle  splash  of  oars  on  the  silvery 
waters  a  song  as  low  and  sweet  as  the  song  of  the  dying  swan. 

[Here  Governor  Taylor  sang:] 

"O,  tell  me  that  you  love  me, 
For  that's  the  sweetest  story  ever  told !" 

And  you  must  tell  him !  If  you  don't  tell  him,  there  will  be 
several  bald-headed  sw^ans  lying  dead  around  the  lake  in  the 
morning.  But  I  hope  you  will  listen  to  his  song,  and  that  our 
handsome  Tennesseans,  and  especially  my  Colonels,  or  at  least 
some  of  them,  may  win  the  hands  and  hearts  of  some  of  these 
fair  Louisianians,  and  that  we  may  thus  have  some  more  happy 
homes  in  Tennessee.  And  who  will  deny  that  the  safety  of  the 
State  must  rest  in  its  happy  homes  ?  Whether  it  be  youth  or 
old  age,  the  bachelor  or  the  benedict,  the  business  man  or  the 
professional,  the  millionaire  or  the  humblest  toiler  in  the  land, 
there  is  in  every  heart  the  pride  of  country  and  the  love  of 
home. 

This  splendid  Centennial  Jubilee  of  the  ''Volunteer  State" 
is  the  celebration  of  the  victories  we  have  won  for  our  country 
and  the  peace  and  blissful  pleasures  which  have  blessed  our 
homes;  and  with  patriotic  pride  we  welcome  our  guests  to  the 
richest,  most  picturesque  and  most  beautiful  Commonwealth 
ever  carved  out  of  the  wilderness,  and  to  the  sweetest  homes 
this  side  of  heaven. 


246  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

ADDRESS  ON  KENTUCKY  RED  MEN'S  DAY,  AUGUST 

12,  1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

The  almost  numberless  tribes  of  North  American  red  men 
have  vanished  from  the  face  of  the  earth  in  little  more  than 
a  century,  and  the  great  herds  of  antelope  and  elk  and  buffalo 
have  vanished  with  them  and  gone  forever  to  the  happy  hunt- 
ing groimd. 

The  story  of  the  destruction  of  this  noble  race  is  the  saddest 
story  ever  told.  How  they  came  in  possession  of  this  continent 
is  a  mystery  of  the  ages,  but  how  they  lost  it  is  a  revelation. 
They  lost  it  as  the  old  man  lost  his  chicken  during  the  war. 
He  started  to  town  one  day  with  an  old  rooster  under  his  arm 
to  sell,  and  as  he  passed  through  the  camp  the  soldiers  tackled 
him  for  a  game  of  seven-up  for  that  old  rooster.  The  old  man 
agreed  to  take  a  hand  and  put  up  his  rooster  as  stakes.  The 
game  was  played  and  the  soldiers  won.  The  old  man  mounted 
his  horse  and  started  home,  but  after  he  had  ridden  a  few 
miles  a  thought  struck  him,  and  he  wheeled  and  galloped  back 
to  the  camp  and  demanded  his  rooster.  "Did  we  not  fairly 
win?"  asked  the  soldiers.  "Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  won 
my  rooster  fa'r;  but  what  in  the  devil  did  you  have  up  ag'in' 
him?" 

The  soldiers  cocked  the  guns  and  presented  arms,  and  the 
old  man  vanished  forevermore. 

Civilization  has  won  from  the  red  man  this  continent,  but 
what  did  civilization  have  up  against  it? 

Nevertheless,  the  game  is  won ;  the  red  man  is  gone,  and  the 
continent  is  ours. 

The  establishment  of  this  Improved  Order  of  Red  Men, 
which  I  have  the  honor  to  welcome  today,  is  a  beautiful  tribute 
to  the  noble  traits  of  character  which  belonged  to  that  vanished 
race. 

Gentlemen  of  the  Improved  Order  of  Red  Men,  I  give  you  a 
cordial  greeting  to  this  exposition.  I  will  permit  you  to  wear 
your  war  paint  and  feathers  on  this  occasion;  but  if  you  get 
too  gay  on  the  "Streets  of  Cairo"  and  frighten  our  women  and 
children  with  your  faces  and  your  warwhoop  as  you  "shoot  the 


ADDRESSES  247 

chute,"  I  shall  instantly  turn  my  Gatlin  guns  upon  you  and 
give  to  the  world  a  practical  illustration  of  the  process  by  which 
your  noble  predecessors  vacated  this  continent. 

But  I  do  not  mean  to  intimate  that  your  presence  is  as 
dangerous  to  "white  folks"  as  if  old  Sitting  Bull  or  Red  Cloud 
were  on  the  warpath  among  us,  for  I  doubt  not  that  every  ''John 
Smith"  in  your  noble  order  who  has  not  already  been  captured 
and  conquered  by  some  fair  "Pocahontas"  is  now  prowling 
around  the  premises  of  some  old  "Powhatan,"  eager  to  be 
pierced  through  the  heart  by  an  arrow  from  Cupid's  bow;  for 
a  race  of  white  men  whose  prowess  can  vanquish  a  race  of  red 
men  and  then  in  turn  be  conquered  and  held  in  perpetual 
captivity  by  the  smiles  and  tears  of  a  race  of  fair  and  innocent 
women,  can  always  be  trusted  beyond  the  reach  of  the  rifle, 
and  this  is  glorious  proof  that  love  is  mightier  than  either  the 
pen  or  the  sword. 

White  man  give  Big  Injun  welcome — heap  welcome ! 


ADDRESS  O^  NASHVILLE  DAY,  SEPTEMBER 

11,  1897. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

Our  matchless  Centennial  Jubilee,  sparkling  with  laughter 
and  song,  murmuring  with  the  music  of  bands,  bubbling  with 
the  gleeful  babble  of  happy  humanity,  rippling  with  the  hum  of 
machinery,  dashing  in  the  sunshine  and  splashing  in  the  shad- 
ows, still  rolls  on  like  the  bright  waters  of  a  peaceful  stream 
winding  its  way  to  the  sea ;  and  it  bears  upon  its  shining  bosom 
the  flotsam  of  beauty  and  the  foam  of  mirth  and  merriment. 

Many  a  squadron  of  gaudy  craft,  flying  the  fluttering  em- 
blems of  liberty  and  peace,  have  floated  by,  with  silken  sails  and 
joyous  crews,  like  a  phantom  ship  on  a  river  of  dreams. 

But  today  the  flagship  Nashville,  freighted  with  eternal  love 
and  bright  hopes  and  sweet  memories,  and  cordonned  by  painted 
keels  of  pleasure,  gaily  leads  the  van,  the  fairest  galley  of 
the  fleet. 


248  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

The  women  upon  her  deck  are  queens,  beautiful  as  Cleo- 
patra and  chaste  as  Caesar's  wife.  Her  men  are  kings,  suscep- 
tible as  Mark  Antony,  but  brave  as  Caesar. 

Nashville  is  the  Alexandria  of  the  Cumberland,  the  Rome 
of  the  "Volunteer  State,"  the  Athens  of  the  southern  half  of 
iSTorth  America.  She  is  the  cradle  of  orators,  the  home  of  states- 
men, the  paradise  of  newspaper  editors,  in  whose  columns  every 
morning  the  blood  of  Abel  is  on  the  hands  of  Cain,  and  every 
afternoon  the  Banner  is  hoisted,  and  there  are  fragments  of 
Governors  and  other  outlaws  by  the  "Bashette."  And  the  Ameri- 
can gets  there  just  the  same.  Nashville  is  the  central  city  of 
the  central  State  of  the  central  South,  and  she  produces  the  best 
of  everything  that  is  great  and  glorious.  She  is  the  nursery  of 
blooded  horses.  I  have  read  the  biographies  of  the  swiftest 
racers  in  the  world  that  were  fleet  as  the  wind;  but  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  Luke  Blackburn  and  Iroquois  say  to  the  wind 
what  Uncle  Rastus  said  to  the  rabbit:  "Git  out  uv  de  way 
heah,  an'  let  somebody  run  whut  hin  run !"  Her  politicians  are 
also  reckless  of  wind ;  and  with  a  good  purse  hung  on  the  wire, 
a  flash  of  lightning  is  an  ox  team  compared  to  them. 

I  have  seen  magicians  shake  empty  bags,  and — lo ! — in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  they  were  full  of  gold.  I  marveled  much 
at  this  until  I  learned  that  a  Nashville  politician  can  shake 
a  full  bag,  and — lo! — in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  it  is  empty. 
In  view  of  what  I  know  of  Southern  opportunities,  I  wonder 
at  the  famous  words  of  Horace  Greeley:  "Go  West,  young 
man."  I  wonder  still  more  that  he  did  not  say  to  the  ancient, 
back-number  politician:  "Go  South,  Methuselah,  and  run  for 
office!" 

If  you  ask  me  what  Nashville  has  ever  done  that  was  great, 
I  answer  that  it  is  the  only  city  in  the  world  that  ever  had  an 
Andrew  Jackson  and  a  James  K.  Polk ;  and  it  is  the  only  city 
in  history  that  ever  inaugurated  a  world's  fair  on  its  own 
hook  and  triumphed,  just  as  "Old  Hickory"  triumphed,  by  the 
power  of  native  genius  and  energy. 

Tennessee  and  the  South  will  reap  a  golden  harvest  of  rich 
results  from  this  exposition,  and  the  name  of  Thomas  and 
Lewis  and  all  the  splendid  corps  of  men  and  women  who  have 


ADDRESSES  249 

wrought  with  them  will  be  the  synonyms  of  courage  and  success 
to  the  rising  generations. 

Let  us  all  rejoice  in  this  triumph,  but  let  us  not  forget  that 
it  is  only  the  prophecy  of  the  glorious  possibilities  of  the  future. 
and  to  realize  its  blessings  will  cost  a  century  of  merited  effort. 
The  question  for  Nashville  and  Tennessee  and  the  whole  South 
to  solve  is  not  whether  we  have  climate,  and  water  power,  and 
timber,  and  lead,  and  zinc,  and  copper,  and  silver,  and  soil  as 
rich  as  the  valley  along  the  Nile;  the  Lord  God  solved  that 
question  when  he  made  the  world;  but  the  problem  for  us  to 
settle  is  the  problem  of  courage  and  energy  to  develop  and  utilize 
the  w^onderful  elements  of  wealth  and  to  make  our  country  the 
richest  country  and  our  people  the  greatest  and  most  pros- 
perous people  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  I  do  not  believe  that 
any  politician  or  statesman  was  ever  the  advance  guard  of 
prosperity;  but  an  intelligent,  industrious  citizenship,  encour- 
aged by  just  laws  and  stimulated  by  a  liberal  government,  back- 
ing honest  endeavor  with  a  sufficient  volume  of  money  to  meet 
the  demands  of  increasing  business  and  increasing  population, 
will  always  foster  contentment  and  happiness  in  the  homes  of  the 
poor,  as  well  as  the  rich,  and  will  insure  the  perpetuity  of  the 
government  itself. 

There  is  every  condition  here  for  the  upbuilding  of  a  mighty 
city,  teeming  with  a  million  busy  people,  and  this  splendid  expo- 
sition is  an  example  of  how  it  may  be  done.  The  South  is  the 
Klondike  of  America,  without  the  perils  of  ice  and  snow,  and  it 
is  here  that  the  great  fortunes  of  the  future  are  to  be  made. 

It  will  cost  many  long,  weary  years  of  toil  to  wun  back  the 
billions  we  lost  by  the  verdict  of  war,  but  the  day  will  come 
when  Dixie  will  be  herself  again. 

God  bless  Nashville  and  Tennessee  and  our  whole  country ! 


(16) 


250  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

ADDRESS    ON    MEMPHIS   AND    SHELBY    COUNTY 
DAY,  SEPTEMBER  14,  1897. 

The  "Queen  City"  of  the  Cumberland  gladly  greets  this 
royal  throng  of  Memphians  and  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
Shelby  County  today,  and  gives  them  welcome,  thrice  welcome, 
to  the  shrine  of  Southern  hope  and  glory. 

This  greeting  is  not  with  cold  and  formal  bows  of  strangers, 
nor  with  the  deceitful  smiles  that  conceal  the  agony  of  the 
millionaire's  puffed-up  family  when  they  see  their  country  kins- 
folk, with  oilcloth  satchels  and  squeaking  shoes,  coming  to  spend 
a  month  at  the  Centennial ;  but  it  is  with  warm  and  rapturous 
welcome,  as  when  twin  sisters  meet  to  celebrate  the  natal  day  of 
mother  and  to  share  alike  her  blessings  and  benedictions. 

And  why  should  not  Nashville  and  Memphis  meet  to  cele- 
brate together,  not  only  the  birthday  of  Tennessee,  but  the 
triumphs  and  achievements  of  her  sons  and  daughters  in  the 
first  hundred  years  of  her  life  ?  The  glory  of  King's  Mountain 
is  Tennessee's  glory,  and  it  is  the  heritage  of  every  Tennessean. 
The  victory  of  New  Orleans  is  Tennessee's  victory,  for  the  sons 
of  Tennessee  bought  it  with  their  blood  and  bequeathed  it  to  the 
world  as  the  priceless  legacy  of  liberty.  Old  Nolachucky  Jack 
was  Tennessee's  John  Sevier.  Old  Hickory  was  Tennessee's 
Andrew  Jackson.  The  Lone  Star  of  Texas  rose  when 
Tennessee's  mighty  Sam  Houston  drew  his  sword,  and  Ten- 
nessee gave  to  Texas  the  peerless  Davy  Crockett.  The  thunder- 
bolts that  shattered  the  armies  of  Mexico  at  Monterey,  Che- 
pultepec  and  Buena  Vista  were  Tennessee's  thunderbolts. 

Every  page  in  the  nation's  history  has  been  enriched  by  the 
deeds  of  Tennesseans.  If  the  second  century  of  Tennessee's  life 
is  as  prolific  of  brains  and  courage  as  the  first  has  been,  what 
power  can  prevent  this  matchless  Commonwealth  from  stepping 
to  the  front  as  the  advance  guard  of  progress  and  civilization  ? 

I  do  not  reflect  upon  the  old  leaders  in  business,  in  the  pro- 
fessions, and  in  the  field  of  politics  when  I  say  that  the  twen- 
tieth century  demands  new  men  of  modern  mold  and  fresher 
thought  to  grapple  with  the  problems  which  confront  mankind. 

Most  of  the  old  leaders  of  the  South  have  crossed  over  the 
river  and  are  resting  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  in  the  paradise 


ADDRESSES  25! 

of  God.  Only  a  little  while  ago  I  stood  in  Memphis  at  the  tomb 
of  a  statesman.  I  saw  clods  fall  upon  his  coffin,  and  I  dropped 
a  tear  on  the  grave  of  Tennessee's  great  war  Governor  and  her 
brilliant  and  faithful  Senator,  and  I  knew  that  the  star  that 
led  us  in  war  and  peace  had  set  forever.  If  Harris  had  lived 
a  hundred  years  he  would  never  have  been  a  back-number 
politician.  He  was  one  of  the  few  great  men  of  earth  whose 
mind  old  age  could  not  rust  and  whose  courage  and  devotion  to 
his  country  the  weight  of  years  could  not  crush. 

As  I  looked  upon  the  face  of  the  dead,  which  I  had  so  often 
seen  all  aglow  with  life,  I  was  softened  into  a  sorrow  unutter- 
able. Honor  sat  upon  his  brow,  truth  still  lingered  upon  his 
lips;  but  the  light  of  day  had  fled  from  his  eyes;  the  shadows 
of  the  long,  long  night  had  fallen  around  him ;  Death  had  whis- 
pered, "Peace,"  and  hushed  the  storms  of  life.  I  would  not 
tear  a  single  leaf  from  the  laurel  wreaths  of  glory  that  encircle 
the  brows  of  the  few  old  soldiers  and  statesmen  w4iO  still  linger 
among  us  like  grand  old  oaks  in  the  midst  of  a  fallen  forest; 
but — 0 ! — it  is  beautiful  to  see  an  old  man,  covered  with  honors, 
retired  from  public  office,  surrounded  by  loving  friends,  linger- 
ing in  the  twilight  of  life,  like  a  long  summer  evening,  to  be 
blessed  by  his  own  generation  and  emulated  by  those  who  follow. 

In  greeting  Memphis  and  Shelby  County  upon  this  auspi- 
cious occasion,  we  only  give  them  welcome  to  the  feast  of 
reason  and  flow^  of  soul  to  which  they  themselves  have  contrib- 
uted. We  are  only  giving  welcome  to  home  folks  and  bidding 
them  feel  at  home  'mid  these  pleasures  and  palaces.  I  have 
read  of  the  dead  city  of  Memphis  on  the  Xile.  I  think  its 
greatness  and  grandeur  have  all  been  transferred  to  the  live 
city  of  Memphis  on  the  Mississippi. 

Memphis  is  the  emporium  of  commerce,  the  greatest  inland 
cotton  market  in  the  world.  She  is  a  city  of  bankers  and 
merchants.  Her  lawyers  can  argue  the  blue  out  of  the  sky.  Her 
triumvirate  of  great  daily  newspapers  exemplify  the  different 
shades  of  popular  opinion.  One  Heralds  the  news  with  a  sil- 
very trumpet;  another  Appeals  to  the  people  with  Conuolyan 
eloquence ;  and  still  another  flashes  its  own  views  like  a  Scimitar. 

Memphis,  like  all  great  metropolitan  cities,  loves  variety. 
Sometimes  she  gives  five  thousand  Democratic  majority,  and 


252  LECTURES  Of  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

sometimes  she  carries  by  the  skin  of  her  teeth.  Memphis  is  the 
paragon  of  enterprise,  but  now  and  then  she  enjoys  a  sensation. 
Her  genius  long  ago  banished  yellow  fever  from  her  borders, 
not  with  antidotes  and  nostrums,  but  with  floods  of  pure  crystal 
water,  spouting  from  her  artesian  wells,  and  with  her  new  sys- 
tem of  drainage,  which  has  made  her  one  of  the  most  healthful 
spots  in  the  world. 

Her  contribution  to  this  splendid  exposition  is  unique  and 
beautiful.  Yonder,  close  to  the  Parthenon,  stands  her  Pyramid, 
silent  and  solemn  as  a  pyramid  of  Egypt;  but  it  is  not  the  habi- 
tation of  mummies;  within  its  slanting  walls  it  is  rich  with 
the  flowers  of  thought  and  the  fruits  of  labor,  and  it  is  alive 
with  the  busy  hum  of  modern  civilization. 

When  I  look  upon  the  scene  which  greets  us  all  today  my 
heart  beats  with  a  quick  pulsation  of  pride  that  I  am  a  Ten- 
nessean  and  a  son  of  the  South.  It  is  a  glorious  scene.  It  is  the 
bow  of  promise  which  spans  the  future  of  my  country,  and  in 
the  vista  beyond  the  angel  of  hope  beckons  our  people  to  a  new 
era  of  prestige  and  power  and  to  the  paradise  of  permanent 
peace  and  prosperity. 


ADDKESS  ON  IRISH-AMERICAN  DAY,  SEPTEMBER 

21,  1897. 

If  I  were  a  sculptor,  I  would  chisel  from  the  marble  my  ideal 
of  a  hero,  I  would  make  it  the  figure  of  an  Irishman,  sacri- 
ficing his  hopes  and  his  life  on  the  altar  of  his  country,  and  I 
would  carve  on  its  pedestal  the  name  of  Emmet. 

If  I  were  a  painter,  I  would  make  the  canvas  eloquent  with 
the  deeds  of  the  bravest  people  who  ever  lived,  whose  proud 
spirit  no  power  can  ever  conquer,  and  whose  loyalty  and  devo- 
tion to  the  home  of  free  government  no  tyrant  can  ever  crush : 
and  I  would  write  under  the  picture,  ''Ireland." 

If  I  were  a  poet,  I  would  melt  the  world  to  tears  with  the 
pathos  of  my  song.  I  would  touch  the  heart  of  humanity  with 
the  mournful  threnody  of  Ireland's  wrongs  and  Erin's  woes.  I 
would  weave  the  shamrock  and  the  rose  into  garlands  of  glory 
for  the  Emerald  Isle,  the  land  of  martyrs  and  memories,  the 
cradle  of  heroes,  the  nursery  of  liberty. 


ADDRESSES  253 

Tortured  in  dungeons  and  murdered  on  scaffolds,  robbed  of 
the  fruits  of  their  sweat  and  toil,  scourged  by  famine  and  plun. 
dercd  by  the  avarice  of  heartless  povrer,  driven  like  the  leaves 
of  autumn  before  the  keen  winter  winds,  this  sturdy  race  of 
Erin's  sons  and  daughters  have  been  scattered  over  the  face  of 
the  earth,  homeless  only  in  the  land  of  their  nativity,  but  princes 
and  lords  in  every  other  land  where  merit  is  the  measure  of  the 
man. 

Where  is  the  battle  field  that  has  not  been  glorified  by  Irish 
courage  and  baptized  with  Irish  blood  ?  And  where  is  the  free 
country  whose  councils  have  not  been  strengthened  by  Irish 
brains  and  whose  wealth  has  not  been  increased  by  Irish  brawn  ? 

Wherever  the  flag  of  war  flutters  the  spirit  of  Irish  chivalry 
is  there,  panting  for  the  battle  and  eager  for  the  charge.  Whether 
it  be  Wellington  leading  the  allied  armies  at  Waterloo,  or  ^ey 
following  the  eagles  of  France;  whether  it  be  Sam  Houston 
crushing  the  armies  of  Santa  Anna  at  San  Jacinto,  or  Davy 
Crockett  courting  death  at  the  Alamo;  whether  it  be  Andrew 
Jackson  at  New  Orleans,  or  Stonewall  Jackson  at  Chancellors- 
ville;  whether  it  be  Phil  Sheridan  in  the  saddle  riding  like  a 
god  of  war  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  or  Pat  Cleburne  leading 
a  forlorn  hope  and  dying  at  the  cannon's  mouth  on  the  breast- 
works of  the  foe,  it  is  the  same  intrepid,  unconquerable  spirit 
of  sublime  courage  which  flows  like  a  stream  of  inspiration 
from  the  heart  of  old  Ireland  to  fire  the  souls  of  the  world's 
greatest  leaders  and  to  burn  forever  on  the  altars  of  liberty. 

^Vherever  the  banner  of  peace  is  unfurled  over  the  progres- 
sive English-speaking  nations  of  the  earth,  this  same  irresistible 
Celtic  blood  has  ever  been  present,  shaping  the  destinies  of  em- 
pires and  republics. 

It  warmed  the  heart  of  Edmund  Burke,  whose  brain  was  a 
mighty  loom  which  wove  tapestries  of  glory  for  England  and 
for  mankind.  It  inspired  the  souls  of  Swift  and  Sheridan, 
whose  dream  will  linger  in  English  literature  forever,  like  the 
fragrance  of  roses  that  are  faded  and  gone.  It  lighted  up  the 
brain  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  who  broke  out  in  songs  sweeter  than 
the  song  of  the  nightingale.  It  kindled  the  soul  of  Tom  Moore 
into  flame,  and,  like  an  angel  of  light  from  the  realms  of  dreams, 
he  swept  the  burning  strings  of  Erin's  harp,  and — lol — the 


254  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

whole  world  thrilled  with  its  melodj.  The  body  of  Tom  Moore 
was  dust  long  ago,  but  his  spirit  lives  in  his  songs  and  breathes 
hope  in  every  Irish  heart  and  happiness  in  every  Irish  home. 
If  I  were  asked  why  our  Southern  people  are  so  impulsive,  I 
should  answer:  It  is  not  so  much  the  effect  of  the  climate  as 
it  is  the  predominance  of  Irish  blood  in  our  veins.  It  was 
this  that  fired  the  Irish  heart  of  Patrick  Henry  to  preach 
secession  from  English  wrath  and  the  power  of  English  arms; 
it  was  this  that  nerved  our  Irish-American  President,  James 
K.  Polk  to  have  Mexico  thrashed  before  breakfast;  it  was  this 
that  woke  the  lion  in  the  Irish  bosom  of  John  C.  Calhoun,  and 
impelled  him  to  thimder  the  doctrine  of  State's  rights  under  the 
Constitution ;  and  it  was  this  which  finally  put  the  North  on  the 
pension  list  and  the  South  on  crutches. 

An  Irishman  was  once  shipwrecked  at  sea,  and  floated  on  a 
broken  spar  to  the  shore  of  a  strange  island.  He  dragged  him- 
self, half  dead,  from  the  water,  and  confronted  one  of  the 
natives. 

"And  have  you  a  government  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  native. 

"Well,  then,  begorra,  I'm  ag'in  itl" 

The  Irish  impulse  is,  first,  the  achievement  of  liberty,  and, 
next,  the  determination  to  accomplish,  at  all  hazards,  whatever 
he  undertakes  to  do. 

An  Irishman  once  came  from  Cork  to  America  and  hired 
himself  to  a  farmer.  The  farmer  gave  him  a  box  of  axle  grease 
and  ordered  him  to  go  and  grease  the  wagon.  In  about  three 
hours  Pat  returned,  weary  and  dripping  with  sweat. 

""Where  have  you  been,  sir  ?"  asked  the  farmer. 

"Oi've  bin  ghreasin'  the  wagon.  Your  Honor." 

"And  did  you  get  it  greased  ?"  asked  the  farmer. 

'^is,  sor;  I  got  it  ghreased  all  over  except  the  things  the 
wheels  run  on.    I  couldn't  get  to  thim." 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  my  Irish  impulse  is  about  to  plunge 
me  into  digression.  I  am  about  to  grease  this  glorious  occasion 
all  over,  except  the  things  the  wheels  run  on.     The  delightful 


ADDRESSES  255 

task  assigned  to  me  is  to  give  welcome,  in  the  name  of  the 
Commonwealth  of  Tennessee,  to  this  splendid  gathering  of  Irish- 
Americans. 

I  am  especially  pleased  to  perform  this  task,  because  Irish 
blood  runs  in  my  veins.  My  great-grandmother  was  an  Irish 
woman,  and  spoke  the  Irish  brogue ;  her  pigs  grunted  Irish,  and 
her  turkey  gobblers  strutted  like  Irish  policemen  and  gobbled 
in  the  Irish  tongue;  and  she  had  an  old  "nager,"  and  he  wag 
Irish,  too. 

I  am  proud  of  the  opportunity  to  give  you  welcome,  because 
I  am  proud  of  my  Irish  blood ;  but  I  am  prouder  still  that  we 
are  all  American  citizens,  for  under  the  ample  folds  of  our  jflag 
the  accident  of  birth  is  neither  the  passport  to  power  nor  a  bar 
to  the  highest  positions  of  trust  and  honor. 

Lincoln  began  life  as  a  rail  splitter ;  Grant,  as  a  humble  tan- 
ner; Andrew  Johnson,  as  an  apprentice  to  a  tailor;  and  Gar- 
field, as  a  mule  driver  on  a  towpath  in  Ohio.     But  these  chil- 
dren of  poverty  all  rose  to  the  presidency  of  the  republic.     I 
have  heard  it  said  that  such  men  as  these  were  self-made,  but 
it  is  not  true.     God  Almighty  made  them  and  gave  them  their 
glorious  opportunities  in  this  land  of  democracy  and  liberty. 
There  is  only  one  self-made  man  in  this  Union  of  whom  I  have 
knowledge,  and  that  is  Dr.  Mary  Walker — and  she  is  Irish,  too. 
I  trust  my  Irish- American  friends  will  pardon  me  for  leav- 
ing out  of  this  short  address  the  long  list  of  Irish  names  whose 
noble  deeds  have  illuminated  all  the  pages  of  American  history. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  without  our  Irish  names  the  sky  of 
our  national  glory  w^ould  lose  half  of  its  stars;  and  yet  how 
can  I  give  you  a  complete  welcome  without  giving  utterance 
in  the  same  breath  to  the  names  of  Grady  and  Father  Kyan — 
Grady,  the  impassioned  Southern  orator,  whose  eloquence  calmed 
the  spirit  of  sectional  hate  and  wooed  the  nation  into  the  fond 
embrace  of  fraternal  love   and  peace;   Grady,  who,  like  the 
morning  star,  blazed  for  a  moment  on  the  horizon,  and  was 
then  lost  forever  from  mortal  eyes  in  the  light  of  God's  eternal 
day;  Eathcr  Kyan,  our  own  Irish  hero  and  poet-priest,  whose 
mournful  melodies  of  despairing  love  for  the  cause  that  was 
lost  and  for  the  flag  that  was  furled  forever  still  melts  the  hearts 


256  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

of  grizzly  veterans  of  the  South  to  the  tenderness  of  childhood ; 
Father  Ryan,  the  Tom  Moore  of  Dixie,  whose  spirit  shall  keep 
watch  over  the  folded  Stars  and  Bars  until  the  morning  of  the 
resurrection. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  again  I  give  vou  welcome,  thrice 
welcome. 


ADDRESS  ON  GERMAIsT-AMERICAN  DAY,  OCTOBER 

6,  1897. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

ISTot  long  ago  I  stood  here  amid  a  thousand  fluttering  flags 
and  greeted  a  gi-eat  throng  of  Irish-American  citizens.  The 
red,  white  and  blue,  mingled  with  Irish  green,  seemed  to  kiss 
the  harp  of  Erin  and  eagerly  caress  it,  as  if  to  conjure  its  silent 
strings  until  they  should  breathe  the  soul  of  music  here  as  they 
breathed  it  long  ago  in  Tara's  hall. 

Today  the  gorgeous  colors  of  Germany  and  America  blend 
together  as  one  flag,  emblematic  of  the  fraternity  of  the  great 
empire  and  the  republic  and  symbolizing  the  truth  that  these 
two  mighty  nations  are  bound  together  by  the  sacred  ties  of 
blood. 

God  bless  the  Fatherland,  the  beautiful  land  of  the  Rhine, 
around  whose  castles  and  templed  hills  there  is  a  halo  of  glory 
which  the  touch  of  years  cannot  dim  nor  the  blighting  breath  of 
passing  centuries  destroy!  The  great  rulers  of  Germany  have 
inscribed  their  names  high  up  in  the  temple  of  fame,  her  states- 
men have  never  been  eclipsed,  her  armies  are  walls  of  bristling 
steel,  and  her  navy  is  a  floating  magazine  of  death.  She  is  the 
home  of  literature  and  the  fountain  of  music;  her  universities 
are  the  beacon  lights  of  advanced  learning ;  her  philosophers  and 
orators,  her  composers  and  poets,  are  the  evangels  of  God,  who 
have  led  mankind  upward  to  higher  planes  of  thought  and  a 
broader  horizon  of  happiness. 

On  this  horizon  I  see  the  figure  of  Martin  Luther,  like  an 
archangel,  parting  the  clouds  of  gloom  and  revealing  to  a  suf- 
fering world  the  light  and  hope  of  immortality.  I  hear  the 
faint  swells  of  distant  miisic  breaking  on  shadowy  shores  like 


ADDRESSES  257 

the  silver  surf  of  some  ethereal  ocean,  and  see  the  glorified  faces 
and  forms  of  old  Beethoven  and  Mozart  and  Mendelssohn  and 
Schubert  and  Handel  and  Wagner  and  Liszt,  reveling  in  the 
bright  world  of  dreams,  catching  melodies  from  the  spheres  and 
incense  for  the  soul  from  the  harp  strings  of  heaven.  I  see 
Humboldt  and  Kant  and  Virchow,  scaling  the  dizzy  heights  of 
philosophy  and  opening  new  mines  of  intellectual  wealth  for 
coming  generations.  I  hear  the  songs  of  Goethe  and  Schiller, 
pouring  their  flood  of  sorrow  and  hope  and  love  into  the  hearts 
and  homes  of  all  who  cherish  the  beautiful.  I  see  the  nationa 
of  the  earth  tremble  with  terror  as  Frederick  the  Great  and  his 
victorious  armies  sweep  like  phantoms  of  fury  across  the  bloody 
plain. 

I  hear  the  rumbling  of  an  earthquake ;  I  hear  the  thunder- 
ings  of  artillery  and  the  roar  of  musketry ;  and  amid  the  smoke 
and  flame  of  battle  I  see  old  Von  Moltke,  the  thunderbolt  of 
Germany,  shattering  the  armies  of  France  at  Sedan.  I  see  a 
mighty  upheaval,  which  breaks  the  line  of  kingdoms  and  prin- 
cipalities forever  and  establishes  the  German  Empire  as  one 
of  the  first  powers  of  the  world.  I  see  the  Emperor,  William 
L,  upon  his  throne ;  and  proudly  in  the  front  stands  Bismarck, 
the  iron  prince,  whose  genius  and  devotion  to  his  country  have 
rendered  him  immortal.  I  see  still  another  star  rising  now 
above  the  harizon.  It  is  the  star  of  the  dashing  young  emperor, 
William  II.,  leading  Germany,  I  trust,  into  a  new  century  of 
peace  and  happiness. 

I  see  these  visions  of  glory  passing  in  review  like  a  pano- 
rama before  me,  and  then  I  remember  that  the  best  blood  of  this 
heroic  people  runs  in  the  veins  of  my  countrymen,  commingling 
with  the  best  blood  of  almost  every  civilized  nation  under  the 
sun ;  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  union  of  all  these  vital  ele- 
ments of  strength  and  power  has  given  birth  to  a  new  and 
stronger  race  of  people  and  developed  a  new  and  grander  civili- 
zation here  in  the  heart  of  this  new  world. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  horizon  of  America's  future  is  all 
aglow  with  hope  and  promise.  The  times  are  blossoming  with 
opportunities  grander  than  were  ever  dreamed  of  in  the  cen- 
turies that  are  gone ;  and  there  will  yet  ripen  a  har^Tst  of  states- 
men, and  warriors,  and  philosophers,  and  poets,  and  musicians, 


258  LECTURES   OF    ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

whose  triumphs  will  drown  the  triumphs  of  the  past  as  the  ris- 
ing sun  drowns  the  stars  of  night  in  the  light  of  the  morning. 
We  will  have  Bismarcks  greater  than  the  Bismarck  of  Ger- 
many, and  Ilumboldts  deeper  and  broader  than  Germany's 
Humboldt,  and  from  this  German-American  blood  will  spring 
poets  whose  songs  will  be  sweeter  than  the  songs  of  Goethe  and 
Schiller.  The  air  of  America  will  yet  be  turned  into  music 
by  our  own  German-American  Mozarts  and  Mendelssohns  and 
Schuberts  as  we  go  marching  on. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  are  welcome. 


ADDRESS     0:N^     NEBRASKA     AND     BRYAN     DAY, 

OCTOBER  8, 1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

I  never  tire  of  the  word  "welcome."  There  is  a  world  of 
meaning  in  it  when  it  comes  from  the  heart.  It  means  more 
than  we  can  express ;  and,  therefore,  I  have  condensed  a  whole 
volume  of  greetings  into  a  single  word,  and  that  word  is  "wel- 


come." 


I  have  gathered  welcomes  from  a  million  hearts  in  Ten- 
nessee, and  have  pressed  them  into  a  perfumed  bombshell  of 
smiles  and  kisses.  I  light  the  fuse  and  toss  it  from  my  lips; 
it  explodes  above  this  beautiful  audience  and  scatters  in  the 
air  a  million  sweet  forget-me-note,  and  they  come  floating  down 
and  fall  into  the  hearts  of  all  who  love  their  homes  and  their 
country. 

Tennessee  weaves  garlands  of  welcome  for  Nebraska's  dis- 
tinguished Governor  and  a  laurel  of  welcome  for  Bryan,  the 
morning  star  of  the  people's  hope,  who,  triumphant  in  defeat, 
still  calmly  looks  into  the  frowning  face  of  centralized  power  and 
warns  it  that  it  shall  not  "press  a  crown  of  thorns  on  labor's 
brow,  nor  crucify  mankind  on  a  cross  of  gold." 

But  I  would  not  mar  the  pleasure  of  this  delightful  hour, 
nor  would  I  forget  the  proprieties  of  this  grand  occasion,  by 
piercing  golden  hearts  with  silver  arrows.     And  yet  when  the 


ADDRESSES  259 

silver-tongued  leader  of  the  cause  of  human  rights  and  human 
happiness  comes  among  us,  how  can  we  repress  our  politics, 
and  how  can  we  silence  the  song: 

"Glory,   glory,   hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah! 
As  Bryan  goes  marching  on  1" 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  music  is  the  wine  of  the  soul,  and 
human  hearts  are  the  purple  clusters  from  which  it  is  pressed. 
If  I  could,  I  would  pour  out  my  heart  in  song  today,  and  Ne- 
braska should  drain  the  brimming  cup. 

We  love  l^ebraska  for  the  men  she  has  produced ;  we  love 
her  for  her  enterprise  and  progress ;  but  we  love  her  best  of  all 
because  she  is  the  home  of  Bryan. 

Yesterday  I  saw  the  rough  riders  of  the  world  in  the  sad- 
dle, led  by  the  king  of  the  world's  horsemen;  and  as  I  sat  in 
the  crowded  amphitheater  and  beheld  with  swimming  head  the 
marvelous  feats  of  these  matchless  equestrians  in  the  arena  be- 
low, I  could  scarcely  keep  from  rising  to  my  feet  and  throwing 
my  hat  in  the  air  and  shouting:  "Hurrah  for  Nebraska,  the 
land  of  statesmen  and  horsemen — Bryan  with  his  silver  lariat 
lassoing  the  bulls  and  bears  of  Wall  Street,  and  Cody  riding 
swifter  than  the  s%viftest  wind  and  shooting  the  stars  out  of 
their  sockets !" 

And  as  I  stand  here  to-day  and  look  into  the  face  of  Ne- 
braska's splendid  Governor,  I  wonder  what  it  is  in  the  soil 
along  the  Platte  that  develops  so  many  noble  men. 

The  truth  is  that  the  mighty  West,  with  its  vast  fields  of 
wheat,  waving  like  fields  of  sunset  gold,  and  its  broad  land- 
scapes, rich  with  ripening  corn,  is  not  only  the  bread  producer 
of  the  nation,  but  it  is  a  brain  producer  as  well ;  and  in  tho 
future  it  will  surely  link  its  shield  with  the  shield  of  the  South, 
and  the  twain  shall  be  one,  battling  for  a  government  "of  the 
people,  for  the  people,  and  by  the  people ;"  and  happiness  shall 
dwell  in  the  homes  of  the  poor  as  well  as  the  rich,  and  the  sun- 
light of  prosperity  will  dawn  on  our  country  and  peace  will 
reign  supreme. 


260  LECTURES  OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

God  bless  the  West  and  the  East  and  the  North  and  the 
South !    God  bless  our  whole  country ! 

Again  I  toss  bouquets  of  welcome  to  our  distinguished 
guests,  and  greet  them,  every  one,  with  the  hope  that  every 
hour  of  their  stay  among  us  will  be  crowded  with  pleasures 
which  will  ripen  at  length  into  precious  memories. 


ADDEESS  ON  CHICAGO  AND  ILLINOIS  DAY, 
OCTOBER  9, 1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladles  and  Gentlemen: 

I  have  just  got  in  a  new  supply  of  welcomes.  I  have  gath- 
ered them,  fresh  and  fragrant,  from  the  hearts  of  the  people 
of  Tennessee.  I  gave  away  a  million  to  Nebraska  yesterday, 
and  I  have  a  million  left  today  for  Illinois.  I  had  a  half  million 
extra  for  your  distinguished  Governor;  but,  like  our  hopes  of 
his  coming,  they  have  wilted.  We  regret  the  absence  of  the 
Governor  of  Illinois,  but  our  disappointment  is  more  than  com- 
pensated by  the  presence  of  the  bold  and  fearless  young  Mayor 
of  Chicago  and  his  distinguished  party,  whom  we  will  honor 
as  warmly  as  though  there  were  a  hundred  Governors  here.  And 
in  this  connection  I  propose  to  mingle  politics  with  my  welcome 
just  long  enough  to  nominate  Mayor  Harrison,  of  Chicago,  for 
Governor  of  Illinois,  provided  he  will  stick  to  the  Chicago  plat- 
form. 

Now  that  I  have  performed  this  pleasant  duty,  I  will  pro- 
ceed with  my  welcome.  Do  you  see  out  yonder  those  white- 
columned  palaces  ?  They  are  yours  today,  and  you  are  welcome 
to  them.  Do  you  see  there  the  only  Egyptian  pyramid  this 
side  of  the  Nile  and  the  only  perfect  Parthenon  ever  built  since 
the  magnificent  original  crumbled  into  ruins  at  Athens?  Take 
them,  with  a  thousand  welcomes.  Have  you  looked  in  upon  the 
evidence  of  our  recovery  from  the  blighting  flames  of  war,  our 
products  of  brain  and  brawn,  the  flowers  of  our  thought  and  the 
fruits  of  our  fields,  the  wealth  of  our  forests  and  mines  ?  They 
are  yours  to  enjoy  today,  and  you  are  a  thousand  times  wel- 
come to  them. 


ADDRESSES  261 

Have  you  seen  our  beautiful  women,  red-lipped,  rose-cheek- 
ed, in  whose  roguish  eyes  whole  regiments  of  Cupids  lie  in 
ambush,  with  drawn  bows  and  poisoned  arrows  ?  Capture  them 
if  you  can,  young  gentlemen,  and  welcome,  heap  welcome !  Per- 
haps if  you  cannot  capture  them,  they  may  capture  you  and 
keep  you  here,  and  you  will  be  welcome. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  City  of  Chicago,  the  great 
benefit  you  will  derive  from  your  visit  to  us  will  be  the  informa- 
tion you  will  gain  as  to  the  successful  management  of  an  expo- 
sition. It  is  true  that  you  had  a  World's  Fair,  which  was  a  very 
fair  affair,  but  it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  the  Tennessee  Cen- 
tennial is  the  greatest  fair  this  side  of  Jordan. 

But  if  this  declaration  offends  our  honorable  guests,  we 
cheerfully  withdraw  it,  and  give  Chicago  the  praise  for  having 
had  the  greatest  exposition  ever  held  on  either  side  of  Jordan, 
so  far  as  we  know. 

But  I  must  not  forget  that  my  theme  today  is  "Welcome." 
We  know  the  history  of  the  State  whose  representatives  are 
here  to  join  us  in  the  celebration  of  the  birth  of  our  State.  I 
have  seen  Illinois  in  her  beauty  and  glory.  I  have  looked  out 
from  the  windows  of  her  Pullman  palaces  on  her  fertile  farms 
dotted  with  happy  homes.  I  have  swept  through  her  pros- 
perous towns  and  beheld  her  great  metropolis,  with  its  glit- 
tering spires  and  shining  domes,  teeming  with  busy  millions 
in  pursuit  of  fortune  and  pleasure.  I  have  seen  the  stars  twin- 
kle to  the  music  of  her  machinery,  while  the  smoke  from  her 
factories  swung  corners  with  the  moonbeams  in  the  air,  and 
I  have  pondered  on  her  progress  and  development.  But  when  I 
read  the  history  of  the  men  she  has  produced  and  developed, 
and  when  I  come  in  contact  with  the  spirit  of  her  people,  and 
when  I  meet  such  representatives  of  her  energy  and  govern- 
ment as  these  who  surround  me  today,  the  mystery  of  her  great- 
ness is  solved. 

I  greet  this  throng  of  Illinoisans  with  a  hearty  welcome,  ant^ 
I  trust  the  honor  they  have  done  us  and  the  help  they  have 
sriven  us  will  be  links  of  steel  to  bind  Tennessee  and  Illinois 
together  in  the  bonds  of  inseparable  friendship  and  brotherhood 
forever. 


2&2  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  THE  AMERICAN 
REVOLUTION,  OCTOBER  10, 1897. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

The  Daughters  of  the  Revolution  are  the  daughters  of  lib- 
erty. Every  drop  of  blood  in  their  veins  is  royal  blood.  Their 
heritage  is  the  continent,  and  they  have  dominion  over  man  and 
beast — especially  man. 

A  nation  without  heroes  is  a  nation  without  a  history,  and 
a  nation  without  a  history  is  a  nation  without  patriotism,  and 
must  fall.  The  heroes  of  the  world  have  opened  the  way  for 
the  triumphant  march  of  civilization,  and  the  nation  whose  peo- 
ple are  proud  of  their  heroic  ancestry  will  always  produce 
heroes. 

The  examples  set  by  our  Revolutionary  fathers  have  never 
been  improved  upon ;  and  as  long  as  we  emulate  and  cherish  the 
history  they  made,  as  long  as  we  glory  in  the  inheritance  of 
their  blood  and  preserve  the  traditions  of  their  valor  in  war 
and  their  virtues  in  peace,  so  long  will  America  be  the  shrine 
of  patriotism  and  the  citadel  of  liberty. 

The  glorious  object  of  your  organization,  as  the  Daughters 
of  the  American  Revolution,  is  to  keep  the  fires  which  were 
kindled  by  Washington  and  his  heroes  forever  burning  brightly 
on  the  hearthstones  and  upon  the  altars  of  our  hearts.  The 
women  who  lived  and  suffered  in  that  dark  day  were  as  truly 
heroic  as  their  husbands;  and  in  their  self-sacrifice,  their  mod- 
esty, their  devotion  to  home,  and  their  efforts  to  make  it  para- 
dise for  the  men  who  fought  the  battles  and  tilled  the  fields  and 
wielded  the  ballot,  they  bequeathed  a  glorious  example  to  the 
Daughters  of  the  Revolution. 

I  congratulate  you  upon  your  success  in  awakening  a  deeper 
and  stronger  interest  in  the  history  of  the  greatest  struggle 
that  was  ever  fought.  The  results  of  that  struggle  have  changed 
the  destiny  of  the  human  race,  and  have  advanced  civilization 
beyond  the  brightest  dreams  of  those  who  won  the  victories. 

Upon  the  foundations  which  they  built  and  cemented  with 
their  blood  and  tears  our  great  republic  has  been  established,  and 
in  order  to  perpetuate  its  blessings  we  must  maintain  the  sacred- 


ADDRESSES  263 

ness  of  home  and  the  purity  of  public  office.     We  must  be  true 
to  our  history  by  remaining  true  to  our  heroes. 

Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution,  it  would  be  irony 
for  me  to  say  that  you  are  welcome  here  today.  Rather  let  me 
say:  God  bless  you;  you  are  welcome  everywhere,  and  on  all 
occasions,  to  all  the  rights  you  want,  and  to  do  as  you  please. 
I  surrender  Tennessee  and  Nashville  and  the  Centennial  to 
rulers  of  the  world,  and  count  myself  a  happy  man  in  being 
accorded  the  privilege  of  remaining  one  of  your  loyal  subjects. 


ADDRESS  OX  XEW  YORK  DAY,  OCTOBER  12,  1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

'New  York  is  the  "Empire  State"  of  the  Union.  She  is  the 
heavy  end  of  Xorth  America ;  she  is  the  great,  throbbing  heart  of 
the  republic,  and  every  time  she  throbs  the  life  current  of  the 
nation  flows  back  and  forth  through  the  arteries  of  commerce 
and  trade ;  she  is  the  mighty  whale  of  the  Western  Hemisphere; 
which  swallows  all  the  Jonahs  who  come  within  her  reach ;  she 
is  the  stupendous  Colossus  of  the  world,  leading  in  thought  and 
straddling  in  politics. 

The  City  of  Xew  York  is  a  perpetual  exposition  of  the 
triumphs  of  thought  and  industry,  and  one  of  her  grandest 
products  is  men.  She  is  the  paradise  of  millionaires,  and  en- 
joys a  considerable  sprinkling  of  poor  folks. 

Xew  York  is  not  only  great  in  wealth,  great  in  population, 
great  in  all  the  elements  of  civilization,  but  she  is  great  in  the 
knowledge  of  where  the  green  pastures  lie.  Her  relations  with 
the  South  remind  me  of  an  old  story  which  has  been  often  told. 
Two  darkies  sat  on  the  bank  of  a  river  fishing.  One  was  an 
old  darky ;  the  other  was  a  boy.  The  boy  got  a  nibble,  his  foot 
slipped,  and  he  fell  headlong  into  the  surging  waters.  The  old 
darky  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  plunged  in  after  the  drown- 
ing boy.  He  seized  him  by  the  hair  and  swam  for  the  shore. 
There  was  a  terrific  struggle,  but  finally  the  old  man  succeeded 
in  landing  his  half-dro^^^led  charge.  A  passer-by  who  witnessed 
the  scene  ran  up  and  patted  old  Rastus  on  the  back  and  said: 
'•Old  man,  that  was  a  noble  deed  in  you  to  risk  your  life  in 


264  Lectures  of  Robert  l.  taylor 

that  way  to  save  the  life  of  that  trifling  boy."  "Yes,  boss," 
said  Uncle  Rastus,  "I  was  'bliged  to  save  that  nigger;  he  had 
all  de  bait  in  his  pocket!" 

We  love  the  old  brother,  and  we  open  our  hearts  and  our 
bottles  to  the  distinguished  Lieutenant-Governor  and  every  son 
of  the  proud  Commonwealth,  and  every  breath  of  the  air  they 
shall  breathe  while  among  us  shall  be  burdened  with  a  welcome 
from  our  people.  But  all  of  our  sweetest  smiles  and  tenderest 
words  we  reserve  for  the  fair  women  of  the  delegation,  the  mem- 
ory of  whose  visit  will  be  to  our  people  like  the  dew  on  the 
flowers  long  after  they  have  departed. 

Mr.  Chairman,  it  is  believed  by  our  brethren  of  the  North 
that  our  people  here  in  the  South  are  not  as  vigorous  as  we 
should  be;  that  we  lack  the  snap  and  push  necessary  for  the 
quick  and  permanent  growth  and  development  of  our  country. 
But  they  forget  that  we  can  raise  three  crops  of  potatoes  in  our 
soil  in  a  single  season ;  that  our  cotton  grows  without  persuasion ; 
that  we  can  fatten  our  hogs  on  acorns  and  pasture  our  cattle 
the  year  round.  They  forget  that  our  persimmon  trees  yield 
tons  of  persimmons  per  annum,  and  that  the  'possums  hang  like 
sugar  lumps  of  "glory  hallelujah"  from  the  bending  limbs  of 
the  aforesaid  and  the  same. 

They  forget  that  we  can  labor  half  the  time  and  rest  the 
other  half,  and  live  better  and  happier  than  any  other  people 
on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

I  think  that  if  we  could  get  our  'New  York  friends  to  see 
the  point  and  furnish  the  money  to  develop  us,  we  could  soon 
pay  the  expense  of  the  whole  government,  feed  and  clothe  the 
entire  United  States,  have  money  left  to  throw  at  the  birds, 
and  rest  all  the  time. 

There  is  one  branch  of  business  in  which  we  are  as  vigorous 
as  our  Northern  brethren,  and  that  is  politics.  Our  annual  crop 
of  politicians  is  equal  to  the  annual  crop  of  cotton  bales — not 
in  weight,  but  in  numbers.  Now  and  then  we  are  blessed  with 
a  statesman,  for  many  are  called  and  but  few  are  chosen.  We 
produce  more  Majors  and  Colonels  in  time  of  peace  than  any 
other  country  in  the  world,  and  sometimes  we  raise  a  little 
of  that  sulphurous  article  which  begins  with  "h"  and  ends  with 
an  "eU." 


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ADDRESSES  265 

But,  Mr.  Chairman,  whatever  the  difference  between  the 
North  and  the  South  may  be  in  climate,  in  wealth,  in  condi- 
tions and  environments,  we  are  all  one  people,  with  common 
hopes  and  a  common  destiny;  and  may  God  bless  our  people 
of  every  section ! 

Again  I  implore  you  to  feel  that  you  are  welcome  to  the 
capital  of  the  "Old  Volunteer  State." 


ADDEESS  ON  MISSOURI  DAY,  OCTOBER  16, 1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

The  glorious  old  Commonwealth  of  Tennessee  opened  her 
doors  last  May  and  invited  the  world  to  her  birthday  party. 
The  boys  and  girls,  both  old  and  young,  have  been  swinging  cor- 
ners ever  since  to  the  music  of  cornets  and  fiddles,  and  I  have 
stood  here  and  called  the  figures  until  I  have  grown  baldheaded 
with  delight.  I  have  pulled  taffy  with  Presidents  and  Gov- 
ernors; I  have  danced  with  the  Woman's  Board,  and  drunk  a 
few  bumpers  with  the  W.  C.  T.  U.,  and  painted  the  to^vn  green 
with  the  Irish. 

I  have  whispered,  "Ich  liehe  du/'  to  the  Germans ;  I  have 
eaten  dog  and  danced  the  war  dance  with  the  Red  Men  and  the 
IToochee-coochee  with  the  drummers,  until  the  clock  of  time  has 
struck  two,  reminding  us  that  the  festivities  will  soon  be  over 
and  that  the  music  of  our  Centennial  Jubilee  will  soon  die 
away  forever.  But  before  the  cock  crows  for  day  I  lead  Mis- 
souri, the  sweetest  and  fairest  maiden  at  the  dance,  back  into 
a  dark  corner  and  sit  do^\^l  by  her,  and  I  will  hold  her  hand 
until  Governor  Stephens  calls  for  "coffee  and  pistols  for  two." 

But  why  should  not  Tennessee  love  Missouri  and  hold  Mis- 
souri's hand  ?  I  made  a  speech  in  Springfield  a  few  years  ago 
to  five  thousand  Tennesseans  and  their  descendants  of  South- 
west Missouri.  I  have  clasped  hands  with  Tennesseans  through- 
out the  length  and  breadth  of  the  State,  and  wherever  Ten- 
nesseans have  settled  on  the  soil  of  Missouri  it  has  blossomed 
like  the  rose.  The  finest  cattle  I  ever  saw  were  in  Missouri ; 
the  finest  hogs  that  grunt,  grow  and  grunt  in  Missouri.     There 

(17) 


266  LECTURES    OF    ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

are  no  richer  fields  on  earth ;  there  is  no  fairer  land.  St.  Louis  ia 
an  ideal  city,  Missouri  is  my  ideal  of  a  State,  and  Governor 
Stephens  is  the  diamond  pin  on  the  shirt  bosom  of  the  West. 
Long  may  he  sparkle  in  the  light  of  the  people's  smiles  and 
long  may  the  people  smile  while  he  sparkles,  so  that  there  will 
be  nothing  but  smiles  and  sparkles  and  sparkles  and  smiles  until 
the  angels  shall  steal  him  away  to  sparkle  forever  in  the  bright, 
bright  Missouri  of  the  sweet  by  and  by. 

I  have  seen  political  pantaloons  as  large  and  coats  as  broad 
and  ample,  but  Missouri  wears  the  biggest  Vest  of  any  State 
in  the  Union. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  for  every  gallon  of  mud  and  water 
in  the  Missouri  River  there  is  a  welcome  in  Tennessee  for  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  Missouri,  for  every  bushel  of  wheat  there 
is  a  blessing,  and  for  every  ear  of  corn  a  benediction.  Fo» 
every  glorious  shower  Missouri  sends  us  we  send  her  back  a 
burst  of  sunshine. 

I  think  the  greatest  achievement  that  our  splendid  exposi- 
tion has  accomplished  is  the  establishment  of  stronger  ties  of 
friendship  between  the  States  of  the  Union  and  the  strengthen- 
ing of  our  love  and  devotion  for  our  country.  I  believe  in  the 
brotherhood  of  mankind;  and  the  nearer  we  approach  it  the 
nearer  we  shall  come  to  universal  peace  and  universal  happiness ; 
for  the  fruit  of  peace  is  happiness,  and  happiness  is  the  ultimate 
object  of  human  thought  and  human  labor. 

Again  I  give  greetings  to  the  distinguished  representatives 
of  our  sister  State  and  bid  them  be  happy  on  Tennessee  soil,  and 
may  God  bless  our  whole  country  with  peace  and  happiness! 


ADDRESS  01^  VERMONT  DAY,  OCTOBER  18, 1897. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

About  a  third  of  a  century  ago  we  gave  Vermont  a  very 
warm  welcome  to  Dixie.  We  threw  her  bouquets  from  the  can- 
non's mouth,  and  she  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a 
tongue  of  fire,  which  was  not  only  eloquent,  but  persuasive. 

But,  thank  God,  the  greetings  of  civil  strife  are  forever 
behind  us,  and  we  are  about  to  step  over  the  threshold  of  a  new 


ADDRESSES  267 

century,  a  reunited  people,  with  the  ]!s'orth  and  the  South  clasp- 
ing hands  and  pledging  to  each  other  eternal  friendship  and 
brotherhood. 

Tennessee  greets  Vermont  today,  not  with  bombshells  and 
bayonets,  but  wdth  blessings  and  benedictions;  not  with  the 
bugle  blast  of  battle,  but  with  the  melodies  of  peace;  not  with 
smoke  and  fire,  but  with  sugar  and  firewater;  not  with  cold  steel, 
but  with  hot  biscuit  and  Southern  hospitality.  Our  distin- 
guished guests  may  not  find  themselves  surrounded  here  with  all 
the  comforts  and  elegancies  which  the  great  wealth  of  New 
England  provides  for  them  at  home,  but  they  will  find  warm 
hearts  and  cordial  welcomes  everywhere  and  good  will  and  fra- 
ternal feeling  among  our  people. 

I  pledge  them,  further,  that  they  shall  see  a  revelation  here. 
They  shall  be  the  witnesses  of  our  triumphs  in  peace,  as  they 
were  of  our  valor  in  war.  They  shall  see  how  the  South  has 
arisen  from  her  ashes  by  the  courage  and  energy  of  her  citizen- 
ship. "We  will  show  them  within  the  gates  of  this  White  City 
the  epitome  of  our  history  and  the  prophecy  of  our  future 
wealth  and  glory.  If  I  could,  I  would  escort  the  splendid  Gov- 
ernor of  Vermont  and  his  delightful  party  all  over  the  South, 
that  they  might  see  the  victories  we  are  winning  along  all  the 
lines  of  industry  and  the  harvests  we  are  reaping  in  every  field 
of  labor,  so  that  they  might  sit  down  around  their  New  England 
firesides,  when  winter  locks  them  in,  and  think  of  our  sunny 
Southern  skies  and  our  snowy  cotton  fields,  stretching  away 
to  the  horizon,  alive  with  toiling  negroes,  gathering  the  fleecy 
crop  and  singing  the  old-time  plantation  songs  as  they  used 
to  sing  them  long  ago;  that  they  might  think  of  our  increasing 
wealth  and  population,  of  our  wonderful  progress  in  education, 
and  of  our  universal  loyalty  to  the  Christian  religion;  that  they 
might  remember  us  as  a  law-abiding,  liberty-loving  people,  loyal 
to  the  government  and  in  the  Union  to  stay.  And  then  they 
might,  perhaps,  determine  to  bid  adieu  to  the  icicles  and  bliz- 
zards and  Boston  baked  beans  of  New  England  and  cast  their 
lot  in  the  beautiful  land  of  Majors  and  Colonels,  where  the 
magnolias  bloom  and  the  mocking  birds  sing,  and  where  sun- 
shine and  salvation  are  free. 


268  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

But  since  I  cannot  show  them  the  whole  South,  it  gives  me 
more  pleasure  than  I  can  express  to  receive  them  and  to  wel- 
come them  to  the  garden  spot  of  the  Western  Hemisphere,  my 
o\vn,  my  native  land — Tennessee. 


ADDRESS  ON  GOVERNOR'S  DAY,  AT  THE  STREET 

FAIR  AND  TRADE  CARNIVAL  AT  KNOX- 

VILLE,  OCTOBER  13,  1897. 

Mr.  Cliaii'man,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

I  have  gladly  broken  away  from  the  capital  of  the  State  to 
join  in  Knoxville's  jubilee. 

I  have  deserted  the  festivities  of  the  Centennial  to  mingle 
for  a  day  with  people  I  love  better  than  all  other  people  and  to 
participate  with  them  in  their  carnival  of  peace.  I  have 
watched  with  increasing  pride  and  pleasure  the  wonderful  evi- 
dences of  our  country's  growth  and  development,  blossoming 
within  the  white  walls  of  our  great  exposition  at  Nashville. 
But  the  flowers  and  fruits  of  thought  and  labor,  which  delight 
me  most,  are  blossoming  and  ripening  here  today  within  the 
granite  walls  of  my  native  mountains.  They  delight  me  most 
because  they  bloom  and  ripen  at  the  door  of  home. 

To  every  man  who  has  a  heart,  home  is  the  dearest,  sweetest 
spot  on  earth.  Home  is  our  shelter  from  the  storms  of  life. 
Its  voices  are  the  echoes  of  love.  Its  smiles  are  the  shadows  of 
heaven.  The  touch  of  loving  lips,  the  tender  twining  of  arms 
about  our  neck,  the  mirth  and  music  of  home,  are  all  that  is 
left  us  of  the  Paradise  that  vanished  like  a  shattered  dream  from 
mortal  eyes  and  mortal  hearts  long  ago. 

I  do  not  know  why  it  is,  but  the  mountaineer  loves  his  home, 
be  it  ever  so  humble,  with  a  stronger  devotion  than  any  other 
type  of  the  human  race.  Though  he  may  roam  "  'mid  pleasures 
and  palaces,"  the  image  of  his  native  rocks  and  rills  and  tem- 
pled hills,  and  the  memories  of  the  friendships  and  loves,  and 
the  rifle  and  the  liberty  of  the  forest,  which  gladdened  his  youth. 
will  appear  in  his  dreams  by  night  and  linger  in  his  thoughts 
by  day. 


ADDRESSES  269 

For  twenty  years  I  have  wandered  in  the  wide,  wide  world. 
I  have  witnessed  triiunphs  of  modern  civilization  which  almost 
blinded  me;  I  have  viewed  the  mighty  cities  of  this  conti- 
nent, ablaze  with  lights  and  teeming  with  anxious  millions  in 
search  of  happiness ;  I  have  sat  in  banquet  halls  under  the  glow 
of  glittering  chandeliers,  where  music  flowed,  and  wine  sparkled, 
and  laughter  melted  into  maudlin  song;  I  have  seen  pomp  and 
pride  and  haughty  wealth  and  jeweled  beauty  parade  in  splendor 
before  their  worshipers;  I  have  sat  in  the  national  council  and 
heard  the  voice  of  eloquence  rise  and  fall  like  the  tempest- 
tossed  waves  of  the  sea;  I  have  three  times  worn  the  highest 
honor  in  the  gift  of  the  people  in  my  native  State;  but  there 
is  only  one  retreat  where  I  have  ever  found  rest  from  the  flat- 
tery of  hollow  hearts — rest  from  the  ingratitude  of  politics, 
rest  from  the  thorns  of  ambition,  rest  from  the  struggles  of  life, 
rest  from  the  allurements  of  earthly  glory ;  that  retreat  is  my 
humble  home,  nestling  far  up  among  the  shadows  of  the  moun- 
tains, where  the  bees  gather  honey  from  the  poplar  blossoms, 
where  the  voices  of  happiness  echo  in  the  sweet  solitudes,  and 
where  brawling  brooks,  leaping  from  lofty  heights,  break  into 
pearls  and  silvery  foam  and  ripple  on  to  the  rivers  in  eternal 
melody. 

I  have  seen  States  broader  in  territory  and  larger  in  wealth, 
but  none  that  can  boast  of  braver  men  or  fairer  women  than 
ours.  I  have  seen  greater  cities,  but  none  more  hospitable 
than  ours.  Taken  altogether,  I  do  not  think  there  is  a  State 
under  the  American  sky  that  can  compare  with  ours, 

Tennessee  is  the  sixteenth  daughter  of  the  Goddess  of  Lib- 
erty ;  and  when  she  was  born  a  new  star  rose  and  blazed  so  bright- 
ly on  the  American  flag  that  the  other  stars  turned  pale  in  the 
presence  of  her  beauty,  and  the  stripes  reddened  with  the  deeper 
crimson  and  flouted  the  glad  air  with  joy.  She  has  grown  up 
to  be  the  loveliest  princess  of  the  South.  She  pillows  her  head 
on  her  own  shadowy  mountains,  the  stars  pin  back  the  curtains 
of  the  blue  sky  above  her,  and  the  angels  peep  through  and  smile 
at  her  delight,  as  she  tucks  her  snowy  wrapper  to  her  knees 
and  dabbles  her  dimpled  feet  in  the  bright  waters  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. !No  wonder  the  outside  world  has  fallen  in  love  with 
Tennessee,  for  she  is  the  sweetest  little  darling  in  the  family. 


270  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

All  the  old  baldheaded  States  in  the  Union  have  made  love 
to  her  this  summer,  and  kings  and  princesses  have  sent  her 
tender  messages.  But  all  the  wealth  of  the  East  and  all  the 
broad  empire  of  the  West  could  not  buy  the  heart  and  hand  of 
Tennessee.  She  is  the  bride  of  Tennesseans,  who  would  spill  the 
last  drop  of  their  blood  in  defense  of  her  honor  and  for  the 
protection  of  her  name. 

When  I  read  the  history  of  Tennessee  and  the  glorious 
record  she  has  made  in  a  single  century  I  almost  wish  I  could 
live  through  the  coming  century  to  witness  the  triumphs  which 
await  her.  This  great  valley  of  East  Tennessee  will  be  a  glit- 
tering chain  of  cities  and  splendid  towns  for  two  hundred  and 
fifty  miles,  and  the  sky  of  night  will  be  red  with  the  reflection 
of  light  from  her  furnaces  and  factories,  and  she  will  be  the 
center  of  population  and  the  richest  country  in  the  world.  She 
will  sit  on  her  seven  hundred  hills,  and  Knoxville  will  be  the  hub 
of  her  glory.  Gay  Street  will  reach  from  Clinton  to  Maryville. 
The  University  of  Tennessee  will  be  the  greatest  institution  of 
learning  on  the  continent,  and  there  will  be  a  carnival  every  day 
in  the  year  except  the  holy  Sabbath.  Tatom  will  send  out  a 
million  copies  of  the  Daily  Tribune.  Eule  will  be  an  angel,  the 
women  will  vote,  and  I  think  the  millennium  will  be  near  at 
hand. 

It  is  not  so  much  wealth  and  mineral  development  that  con- 
stitutes the  greatness  of  a  State  as  it  is  the  brain  and  heart  of 
those  who  make  wealth  and  build  States.  It  is  not  so  much 
what  we  have,  but  what  we  are,  that  will  give  to  our  history 
its  enduring  luster  and  impress  our  greatness  on  coming  genera- 
tions. 

Eiches  will  perish  and  even  our  cities  will  crumble  into 
ruins,  but  our  patrotism  and  love  of  truth  and  our  noble  deeds 
for  country  and  humanity  will  survive  the  wreck  of  nations. 

I  bow  to  the  prophet  of  the  Smokies  and  to  all  the  glittering 
hosts  that  follow  him,  and  I  trust  that  his  advent  here  at  the 
threshold  of  the  twentieth  century  will  herald  the  dawn  of  a 
new  era  of  happiness  and  prosperity  for  Knoxville  and  for  this 
beautiful  land  of  the  mountains. 


ADDRESSES  27 1 

ADDRESS  AT  THE  MEMORIAL  SERVICES  OF  HON. 

ISHAM  G.  HARRIS,  IN  THE  AUDITORIUxM  AT 

MEMPHIS,  TENK,  NOVEMBER  21,  1897. 

Mr.  Chairman  J  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

I  come  to  drop  a  flower  of  love  and  reverence  on  the  grave 
of  Isham  G.  Harris  in  the  name  of  the  State  which  he  served 
so  long  and  so  v^'ell.  If  all  the  noble  deeds  he  has  done  for  his 
country  and  for  his  fellow  man  were  flowers,  I  could  gather  a 
million  roses  from  the  hearts  of  Tennesseans  tonight.  What- 
ever else  may  be  said  of  him,  he  was  an  honest  man.  His  heart 
was  the  temple  of  truth,  and  his  lips  were  its  oracles.  He  loved 
his  native  land,  and  loyalty  to  duty  was  his  creed.  He  lived  a 
long  and  stormy  life;  he  died  a  hero. 

The  summons  came  to  him  in  the  triumphant  hour  of  the 
State,  when  the  Centennial  bells  were  ringing  out  the  old  cen- 
tury and  ringing  in  the  new.  In  the  glorious  noontide  of  Ten- 
nessee's joyful  jubilee,  when  the  trumpets  of  peace  were  pouring 
out  the  soul  of  music  on  the  summer  air,  he  heard  the  solemn 
call  of  another  trumpet,  which  dro\\Tied  all  the  melodies  of  this 
world.  He  saw  the  shadow  of  an  invisible  wing  sweep  across  his 
pillow,  a  pallor  came  over  his  face,  his  heart  forgot  to  beat, 
there  w^as  only  a  gasp,  a  sigh,  a  whispered,  ''I  am  tired,"  and 
tired  eyelids  were  drawn  like  purple  curtains  over  tired  eyes, 
tired  lips  were  closed  forever,  tired  hands  were  folded  on  a 
motionless  breast. 

The  mystery  of  life  was  veiled  in  the  mystery  of  death. 
^AHiat  is  life?  What  is  death?  Today  we  hear  a  bird  singing 
in  the  tree  top ;  they  tell  us  that  is  life.  Tomorrow  the  bird  lies 
cold  and  stiff  at  the  root  of  the  tree;  it  will  sing  its  song  no 
more ;  they  tell  us  that  is  death.  A  babe  is  born  into  the  world ; 
it  opens  its  glad  eyes  to  the  light  of  day  and  smiles  in  the  face 
of  its  loving  mother;  and  they  tell  us  that  is  life.  The  child 
w^anders  from  the  cradle  into  the  sweet  fairyland  of  youth,  and 
dreams  among  its  flow^ers.  But  soon  youth  wakes  into  manhood,, 
and  his  soul  is  afire  with  ambition.  He  rushes  into  the  strug- 
gles of  real  life,  and  wins  his  w'ay  from  the  log  cabin  to  the 
gubernatorial  chair.     The  lightnings  begin  to  leap  from  the 


272  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

gathering  clouds  of  war,  tlie  thunders  begin  to  fall  around  him ; 
but  he  stands  like  a  lion  at  his  post;  and  when  the  dreadful  shock 
at  Shiloh  comes,  where  the  flower  of  Tennessee  are  rushing  to 
glorj  and  the  grave,  through  the  rifted  smoke  I  see  him  kneeling 
on  the  bloody  field,  with  the  peerless  Albert  Sidney  Johnston 
dying  in  his  arms. 

At  last  his  flag  goes  down  in  blood  and  tears ;  he  is  exiled 
from  his  country.  But  the  clouds  soon  clear  away,  and  he 
returns  in  triumph,  to  be  clothed  by  the  people  with  greater 
power  than  ever  before  and  to  sit  like  an  uncrowned  king  in  the 
highest  council  of  the  nation  until  his  raven  locks  turn  white  as 
snow. 

But  the  scene  shifts  again;  and  as  we  are  called  from  our 
revelry  to  stand  around  the  coffin  of  our  matchless  Senator, 
there  are  tearstains  on  the  cheeks  of  merriment  and  mourning 
muffles  mirth.  They  tell  us  that  is  death.  The  song  of  the 
bird  is  the  soul  of  melody,  and  the  laughter  of  the  child  is  the 
melody  of  the  soul. 

The  joys  of  youth  are  the  blossoms  of  hope.  Manhood  gath- 
ers the  golden  fruits.  But  death  robs  the  bird  of  its  song,  and 
steals  laughter  from  the  lips  of  childhood.  Death  plucks  the 
blossom  of  youth  and  turns  the  golden  fruits  of  manhood  to 
ashes  on  the  lips  of  age. 

Poor  bird,  is  there  no  brighter  clime  where  thy  sweet  spirit 
shall  sing  forever  in  the  tree  of  life  ?  Poor  child,  is  there  no 
better  world  where  the  soul  shall  wake  and  smile  in  the  face 
of  God  ?  Poor  tired  man,  is  it  all  of  life  to  live  ?  Is  it  all  of 
death  to  die  ?  Is  there  not  a  heaven  where  thy  tottering  age 
shall  find  immortal  youth  and  where  immortal  life  shall  glorify 
thy  face?     It  must  be  so;  it  must  be  so. 

Somewhere  beyond  this  world  there  is  infinite  power  and 
eternal  life.  The  blessed  Christ,  who  whispered  "Peace"  to  the 
troubled  waters  of  Galilee,  has  whispered  "Peace"  to  the  trou- 
bled soul  of  the  departed  Senator.  There  his  tired  eyes  have 
opened  to  the  light  of  a  blissful  immortality. 


ADDRESSES  273 

ADDRESS     ON    PRESENTING    A    ELAG    TO     THE 
EOURTII  TENNESSEE  VOLUNTEERS,  NOVEM- 
BER, 1898,  AT  KNOXVILLE. 

The  most  striking  and  picturesque  figure  in  all  history  is 
that  of  a  lean  and  sinewy  old  man,  with  long  hair  and  chin 
whiskers,  and  wearing  an  old-fashioned  plug  hat.  His  pan- 
taloons are  in  stripes  of  red  and  white,  and  his  blue  swallowtail 
coat  is  bespangled  with  stars.  He  is  the  personification  of  the 
United  States,  and  we  call  him  Uncle  Sam. 

He  is  the  composite  of  the  wildcat  and  the  cooing  dove,  the 
lion  and  the  lamb,  and  "summer  evening's  latest  sigh  that  shuts 
the  rose."  He  is  the  embodiment  of  all  that  is  most  terrible. 
The  world  stands  appalled  at  his  wonderful  power  and  bows 
in  admiration  to  his  matchless  magnanimity. 

He  is  the  tallest  figure  on  this  mundane  sphere,  and  when 
he  steps  across  the  continent  and  sits  do^\Ti  on  Pike's  Peak  and 
snorts  in  his  handkerchief  of  red,  white  and  blue,  the  earth 
quakes  and  the  monarchs  tremble  on  their  thrones.  From  the 
peaceful  M'alks  of  life  he  can  mobolize  a  mighty  army  in  sixty 
days,  and  in  ninety  days  he  can  destroy  a  powerful  navy  and 
demolish  an  empire.  He  is  boss  of  the  Western  Hemisphere. 
Sheriff  of  Cuba,  Justice  of  the  Peace  of  Porto  Rico,  and  guar- 
dian ad  litem  of  the  Philippine  Islands.  He  is  as  brave  as 
Caesar  and  as  meek  as  Moses. 

He  is  as  fierce  as  a  tiger  and  as  cool  as  a  cucumber.  He 
wears  the  tail  feathers  of  the  eagle  of  France  in  his  hat  and  the 
scalp  of  Mexico  in  his  belt.  He  laughs  at  the  roar  of  the  Rus- 
sian bear,  and  is  ahvays  ready  for  a  schooner  of  German  beer. 

All  that  is  left  of  Spain  is  her  "honah,"  since  her  combat 
with  Uncle  Sam.  No  longer  the  lion  of  England  roars  at  our 
door,  but  the  twain  now  stand  together  for  liberty  and  hu- 
manity. 

Officers  and  soldiers  of  the  Fourth  Tennessee  Volunteers, 
you  are  a  part  of  Uncle  Sam,  and  in  the  name  of  seventy  millions 
of  his  nephews  and  nieces,  and  especially  in  the  name  of  his 
favorite  kinsfolk  in  this  beautiful  city,  I  present  you  this  flag. 
Behold  its  beautiful  colors!  The  red-lipped  girls  of  Tennessee 
have  kissed  it,  and,  lo!   these  crimson  stripes!     They     have 


274  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

pressed  it  to  their  innocent  hearts,  and,  lo,  these  stripes  of  snow ! 
Tour  mothers,  and  wives,  and  sisters,  and  sweethearts  have 
looked  upon  it  and  sanctified  it  with  their  prayers  and  bless- 
ings, and,  lo,  this  azure  field  of  radiant  stars,  the  symbol  of 
hope  and  love,  and  tokens  of  truth  and  loyalty!  Take  these 
gorgeous  colors  from  these  loving  hands,  and  God  bless  you. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  NASH- 
VILLE ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  VISIT  OF 
LIEUT.  HOBSON  AND  CAPT.  MAYNARD 
TO  THAT  CITY,  DECEMBER  16,  1898. 

Your    Majesties,  My  Little  Kings  and  Queens: 

I  stand  in  your  royal  presence  today  with  uncovered  head 
to  present  to  you  two  of  your  renowned  subjects  who  have  come 
to  pay  homage  to  Your  Majesties. 

I  address  you  as  kings  and  queens  because  you  are  mon- 
archs  of  our  homes  and  rulers  of  our  hearts.  You  are  the  auto- 
crats of  the  breakfast  table  and  the  dinner  table  and  the  supper 
table,  and  you  are  the  terror  of  your  grown-up  sisters  and  their 
sweethearts.  You  are  the  Czars  and  Czarinas  of  the  hearth- 
stones, and  all  the  old  daddies  and  mammies  are  your  willing 
slaves.  But  your  yoke  is  easy,  for  it  is  the  twining  of  tender 
arms ;  your  burden  is  light,  for  it  is  the  burden  of  love. 

Two  heroes  come  to  you,  fresh  from  seas  of  glory,  to  re- 
ceive the  laurel  wreath  of  your  blessings  and  benedictions.  One 
of  them  unbottled  the  first  bombshell  of  the  war  with  Spain  from 
the  frowning  deck  of  the  gunboat  Nashville;  the  other  bottled 
up  the  enemy  with  the  Merrimac  in  Santiago  Bay. 

They  are  both  corkers  and  uncorkers.  They  are  the  cork- 
screws of  Uncle  Sam,  and  that's  what's  the  matter  with  Spain. 

Tennessee  and  Alabama  are  proud  of  their  noble  sons,  and 
every  patriotic  bosom  heaves  a  welcome  to  them.  Every  little 
heart  that  beats  in  this  dimpled  sea  of  mirth  and  beauty  throbs 
a  welcome  to  our  heroes ;  every  sunny  curl  and  raven  lock  waves 
a  greeting ;  every  bright  eye  beams  with  love  and  gratitude. 


ADDRESSES  275 

No  SAveeter  tribute  was  ever  paid  to  men  than  that  which 
comes  sparkling  and  bubbling  from  the  innocent  soul  of  child- 
hood. No  wonder  the  Savior  said,  ''Suffer  little  children  to 
come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven." 

Tennessee  gives  her  first  welcome  to  her  distinguished 
guests  through  the  lips  of  her  little  children,  because  it  is  the 
purest  and  best.  She  welcomes  them  with  love,  laughter  and 
song. 

When  I  was  a  barefooted  boy  I  used  to  study  the  pictures 
of  battles  and  listen  to  the  stories  of  heroic  deeds  until  my 
cheeks  burned  with  excitement  and  my  heart  went  flippity-flop. 
I  would  have  given  all  my  treasures  of  marbles  and  toys  and 
everything  else,  dowTi  to  the  patches  on  my  breeches  and  the 
rag  on  my  sore  toe,  to  be  a  hero.  And,  sure  enough,  my  oppor- 
tunity came.  When  the  Civil  War  burst  upon  our  country,  I 
was  a  ten-vear-old  lad,  and  had  never  heard  a  harsher  sound 
than  a  hen  cackle  or  the  hoot  of  an  owl.  But  at  the  age  of 
twelve  I  became  a  hero  and  lost  my  hair  in  the  battle  of  Tay- 
lor's Ford,  on  the  bank  of  the  beautiful  Watauga  River.  W^hen 
I  discovered  the  enemy  approaching  I  pulled  off  my  little  wool 
hat  and  "hit  the  dim  and  shadowy  distance  like  Nancy  Hanks," 
and  there  was  weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth. 

Who  knows  but  that  if  Captain  Maynard  and  Lieutenant 
Hobson,  at  the  age  of  twelve  and  under  those  circumstances,  had 
met  the  foe,  they  would  have  broken  my  record  as  a  running 
hero  ?  But  the  fears  of  childhood  vanish  from  the  heart  of  the 
man;  and  while  the  valor  of  my  manhood  was  "born  to  blush 
unseen  and  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air,"  the  courage  of 
these  two  young  men  has  been  witnessed  and  applauded  by  the 
whole  world. 

The  struggle  with  Spain  was  short  and  decisive.  Our  splen- 
did navy,  manned  by  them  and  their  gallant  comrades,  hovered 
like  a  storm  cloud  on  the  horizon  and  burst  upon  the  foe,  and 
there  was  nothing  left  but  the  burning  wrecks  of  Spain's  battle- 
ships and  her  army  rolling  back  in  dismay  and  defeat. 

Captain  Maynard  and  Lieutenant  Hobson,  I  present  you  a 
bouquet  of  rosebuds — the  children  of  Tennessee. 


276  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

ADDRESS  OF  WELCOME  TO  LIEUTEN-ANT  HOBSON 

AND  CAPTAIN  MAYNARD  ON  THEIR  VISIT 

TO  NASHVILLE,  DECEMBER  16,  1898. 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

The  ejes  of  the  Avhole  world  are  turned  upon  this  great  re- 
public of  civil  liberty  as,  in  its  marvelous  strength  and  power, 
it  pulls  do^Mi  the  flags  of  monarchies  all  around  its  borders 
and  glorifies  the  islands  of  the  sea  with  its  own  broad  stripes 
and  bright  stars. 

The  great  powers  of  the  earth  are  wondering  how  a  nation 
of  such  proportions  and  a  government  of  such  resistless  force 
could  be  developed  within  the  circle  of  a  single  century.  They 
see  old  theories  of  government  exploded  here,  old  creeds  shrink- 
ing before  the  religion  of  Christ,  and  old  philosophies  vanishing 
like  the  mist  of  morning  before  the  sunlight  of  a  new  and  glori- 
ous civilization ;  but  the  story  has  not  half  been  told.  If  I  could 
draw  back  the  curtain  of  the  future,  I  would  show  to  these  won- 
dering nations  still  greater  triumphs  and  still  more  marvelous 
achievements ;  I  would  show  them  America  controlling  the  trade 
of  the  world;  I  would  show  them  American  commerce  spread- 
ing its  white  wings  above  the  billows  and  flying  from  ocean  to 
ocean  through  the  peaceful  portals  of  the  Nicaraguan  Canal;  I 
would  show  them  Cuba,  the  weeping  child  of  the  sea,  burst- 
ing into  laughter  and  song  in  the  loving  arms  of  liberty,  and 
Porto  Rico,  the  blushing  beauty  of  the  Atlantic,  smiling  be- 
neath the  folds  of  the  American  flag.  But  beyond  Cuba  and 
Porto  Rico  I  seek  not  to  penetrate  the  veil.  On  the  Philippines 
I  would  let  the  curtain  fall. 

The  glory  of  our  nation  is  the  blossoming  of  freedom,  and 
freedom  sprang  from  the  blood  of  heroes.  No  wonder  we  twine 
the  laurel  wreath  and  turn  the  air  into  music;  no  wonder  we 
greet,  with  open  arms  and  overflowing  hearts,  our  heroes  when 
they  come. 

Whenever  we  shall  forget  the  sacrifices  they  have  made  and 
the  suffering  they  have  endured ;  whenever  we  shall  cease  to 
scatter  flowers  over  the  graves  of  the  dead  and  weave  garlands 
for  the  living;  whenever  we  shall  grow  weary  of  honoring  the 
scars  of  valor  and  applauding  the  knightly  courage  of  men  who, 


ADDRESSES  277 

for  the  sake  of  humanity,  face  death  at  the  cannon'3  mouth,  our 
glory  will  fade  and  freedom  will  perish  among  its  wor- 
shipers. 

Tonight  the  feet  of  heroes  are  pressing  the  sacred  soil  of 
Tennessee — sacred  because  it  is  sanctified  with  the  blood  of  as 
brave  men  as  ever  faced  a  foe.  One  of  these  heroes  was  born 
on  this  soil  but  while  yet  in  his  youth  destiny  led  him  from 
his  native  mountains  to  win  his  laurels  on  the  ocean  wave,  and 
the  first  shot  of  the  war  with  Spain  was  fired  by  a  Tennessean 
from  the  frowning  deck  of  the  gunboat  which  bears  the  name  of 
Nashville. 

Captain  Maynard,  Tennessee  welcomes  you  to  her  warm, 
throbbing  heart,  as  a  proud  old  mother  receives  her  darling 
boy. 

Lieutenant  Hobson,  I  wish  I  could  spin  the  feelings  of  our 
people  into  shining  threads  and  weave  them  into  words  to  ex- 
press our  admiration  of  your  courage  and  our  love  to  you.  There 
is  only  an  imaginary  line  between  Tennessee  and  Alabama. 
Alabama's  sons  are  Tennessee's  sons,  and  Tennessee's  boys  are 
Alabama's  boys. 

Tennessee  would  fight  any  day  for  Alabama,  and  I  know 
that  Alabama  would  fight  for  Tennessee.  We  are  all  one  people, 
and  the  honor  of  one  State  is  the  glory  of  the  other.  I  hope 
that  Tennessee's  gallant  Maynard  and  Alabamans  brave  Hobson 
will  live  through  many  years  to  come  to  enjoy  the  blessings 
and  benedictions  of  all  the  people  of  our  whole  country;  and 
when  they  die  and  their  bodies  shall  be  buried  out  of  sight — 
like  the  IMerrimac — I  hope  their  spirits  will  be  wafted  to  heaveu 
on  the  shining  deck  of  the  spirit  boat  Nashville. 

"Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  death ; 
Come  to  the  mother,  when  she  feels 
For  the  first  time  her  firstborn's  breath ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastlj-  form. 
The  earthquake's  shock,  the  ocean's  storm — 

And  thou  art  terrible; 
But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 
Hath  won  the  battles  of  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 
The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be." 


278  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

ADDRESS   AT   THE    STATE   INDUSTRIAL   EXPOSI- 
TION AT  DALLAS,  TEXAS,  NOVEMBER,  1897. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

Did  you  ever  rise  from  your  slumber  early  enough  to  wit- 
ness the  dawn  of  day,  when  the  Morning  comes  forth  from  her 
palace  in  the  sun  and  unfurls  her  banners  of  light  on  tlie 
horizon  and  hides  the  morning  star  in  her  bosom?  That  is 
the  emblem  of  the  glory  of  Texas.  How  many  times  have  you 
sat  on  your  veranda  in  the  hush  of  the  dying  day  and  watched 
the  cloud  isles  of  twilight  drifting  in  seas  of  sunset  gold  ?  That 
is  the  symbol  of  the  harvest  time  in  Texas,  and  the  Milky  Way 
is  the  shadow  on  the  heaven  of  her  cotton  fields ;  and  the  angels 
dip  water  from  the  artesian  wells  with  the  dipper  of  stars  which 
hangs  on  the  sky,  and  the  man  in  the  moon  is  the  shining  pic- 
ture of  Governor  Culberson. 

I  have  thought  many  times  that  I  would  make  a  pilgrimage 
across  Texas  from  her  eastern  line  to  her  western  boundary,  but 
her  domain  was  too  wide  and  life  was  too  short.  The  engine 
always  fainted  from  exhaustion;  tarantulas  got  in  the  whisky, 
and  I  sighed  to  rest  me  again  in  the  bosom  of  Dallas — Dallas,  the 
beautiful  butterfly  of  the  Southwest,  under  whose  bright  wings 
the  broad  prairies  bloom  with  perpetual  peace  and  plenty. 

I  can  understand  why  so  many  longing  eyes  turn  to  Texas 
and  why  so  many  weary  hearts  sigh  for  rest  in  Dallas.  One  is 
an  empire  of  glory,  and  the  other  is  the  glory  of  the  empire. 

Texas  is  the  largest  waffle  on  the  griddle  of  North  America. 
She  is  sweetened  with  the  honey  of  happiness  pouring  from 
the  bunghole  of  prosperity  and  buttered  with  pure  Democracy, 
Woe  to  the  prince  or  potentate  who  sticks  a  fork  in  Texas! 
Mexico  tried  it  once  and  bent  double  with  a  spell  of  San 
Jacinto. 

The  honey  of  Texas  is  poison  to  tyrants,  and  her  bees  sting 
to  death  the  invaders  of  her  soil ;  but  to  those  who  love  her  and 
are  loyal  to  the  lone  star  that  lights  the  pathway  of  her  destiny, 
her  cities,  and  towns,  and  hamlets,  and  homes  are  beehives  of 
hospitality,  rich  with  the  honeycomb  of  smiles  and  welcomes. 

The  land  of  Jackson  sends  greetings  to  the  land  of  Houston. 
May  God  bless  Tennessee  and  may  God  bless  Texas !     When  I 


ADDRESSES  279 

was  a  barefooted  boy  away  up  among  the  mountains,  where 
Nature  sings  her  sweetest  song  and  brawling  brooks  laugh  in 
the  sunshine  and  dance  in  the  shadows,  I  used  to  sit  on  the 
bank  of  the  river  and  watch  the  caravans  of  covered  wagons 
creeping  like  mammoth  snails,  with  their  shells  on  their  backs, 
southward  to  the  wilderness  of  Texas.  I  did  not  dream  then 
that  the  ragged,  rosy-cheeked  children  who  crowded  under  the 
wagon  covers  were  the  prophecies  of  the  wealth  and  power  and 
glory  of  the  greatest  empire  that  was  ever  born  on  this  conti- 
nent. JBut  so  it  was.  The  caravans  landed  their  precious  freight 
in  the  wilds  of  Texas.  The  blue  smoke  began  to  curl  upward 
from  the  cabins  of  the  pioneers ;  the  burnished  plowshare  began 
to  slice  the  broad  prairies  like  a  hot  knife  slicing  a  conti- 
nent of  Jersey  butter;  the  reaper,  like  a  phantom  ship,  began 
to  sweep  across  amber  seas  of  grain ;  the  Texans  w^ho  had  read 
Milton's  "Paradise  Lost"  began  to  talk  about  Paradise  re- 
gained; the  little  ragged,  candy-haired  children  grew  up  into 
a  race  of  the  fairest  women  and  the  bravest  men  that  the  sun 
in  heaven  ever  shone  upon ;  they  married  the  sons  and  daugh- 
ters of  the  heroes  wdio  had  won  the  independence  of  Texas,  and 
there  were  more  cabins  on  the  prairie,  and  another  generation 
w^as  born  whose  valor  and  strength  have  given  increased  power 
to  this  mighty  Commonwealth. 

The  spirit  of  the  Alamo  glorifies  the  brow  of  manhood,  and 
the  blood  of  San  Jacinto  warms  the  heart  of  courage  and  red- 
dens the  cheek  of  beauty  here  today.  The  dark-visaged  demon 
of  savage  hate  which  once  lighted  the  torch  and  brandished  the 
scalping  knife  and  spread  its  flaming  wings  on  the  horizon  ha? 
vanished  from  Texas  forever.  The  white-crested  billows  of 
Mexican  wrath  w'hich  once  rolled  up  from  the  south  and  then 
rolled  back  again,  crimsoned  wath  blood,  were  calmed  long  ago, 
and  the  angel  of  peace  is  hovering  over  the  land. 

Texas  and  Tennessee  worship  together  and  rejoice  as  one 
people  in  the  triumphs  of  the  past  and  the  promises  of  the 
future. 

A  new  era  of  industrial  growth  and  intellectual  develop- 
ment is  breaking  like  the  glory  of  the  morning  upon  us.  The 
symphonies  and  hallelujahs  of  our  Centennial  Jubilee  at  Nash- 
ville are  still  falling  like  the  soft  waves  of  a  summer  ocean  upon 


280  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

the  glad  hills  of  Tennessee,  and  the  reviving  South  is  listening 
with  unutterable  rapture  to  the  great  industrial  song  of  Texas ; 
and  the  symphonies  and  hallelujahs  of  Tennessee  and  the  tri- 
umphant songs  of  Texas  are  mingling  in  one  grand  anthem  of 
praise  to  God,  like  the  joyous  waters  of  many  rivers  that  meet 
and  flow  together  and  sing  on  to  the  sea.  I  have  stood  on  the 
platform  of  the  great  auditorium,  amid  the  statues,  and  col- 
umns, and  domes,  and  pyramids  of  our  splendid  Exposition  at 
home,  and  I  have  welcomed  a  million  people  to  the  bosom  of  my 
own.  native  State.  There  I  have  watched  sectional  lines  melt 
away ;  there  I  have  seen  sectional  ignorance  enlightened  and  sec- 
tional hate  disarmed ;  there  I  have  seen  sectional  prejudice  trans- 
formed into  national  pride  and  patriotism;  there  I  have  seen 
the  Korth  and  East  look  with  astonishment  upon  our  progress 
and  our  miraculous  recovery  from  the  ruins  of  war,  and  I  have 
heard  them  pledge  their  eternal  friendship  and  fraternal  love; 
there  I  have  seen  the  West  come  to  do  us  honor,  and  then  go 
away  to  her  rich  farms  and  contented  homes  with  new  and  hap- 
pier memories  of  our  people  and  with  new  and  better  ideas  of 
our  country ;  there  I  have  seen  our  own  sweet,  sunny  South 
drain  the  brimming  cup  of  joy  and  return  to  her  cotton  bales, 
and  fruits,  and  flowers  with  new  luster  in  her  eye  and  new 
hope  in  her  heart;  there  I  have  witnessed  a  sure  and  steady 
step  toward  the  universal  brotherhood  of  man.  May  God  grant 
that  the  light  of  such  a  morning  may  soon  break  upon  this  world. 
But  I  have  stolen  away  from  the  festivities  of  old  Tennessee 
in  the  evening  of  her  great  jubilee  to  swing  corners  with  Texas, 
the  dark-eyed  queen  of  the  South.  The  greatest  grievance  which 
we  have  against  Texas  lies  in  the  fact  that  we  have  loaned  her 
thousands  of  our  bravest  men  and  loveliest  women  and  she  has 
never  returned  our  jewels  except  upon  the  requisition  of  the 
Governor,  when  Tennessee  has  tenderly  sung  to  Texas  "Oh, 
where  is  my  wandering  boy  tonight  ?" 

My  wandering  friends  from  Tennessee,  when  I  go  back  to 
the  land  of  your  nativity  and  view  the  blue  mountains  in  the 
springtime  and  summer,  which  change  to  bouquets  of  purple 
and  gold  in  autumn,  to  billows  of  snow  in  winter;  when  I 
watch  with  ecstasy  the  shining  streams  dashing  down  through 
the  valleys ;  when  I  feel  the  cold  breath  of  the  shadowy  gorges 


Senator  Robert  Love  Taylor,  from  One  of  His  Latest  Photographs. 


ADDRESSES  28 1 

npoii  my  brow;  when  T  wander  among  the  green  hills  and 
quench  my  thirst  from  bubbling  springs  and  feast  my  soul  upon 
the  beauty  of  gorgeous  landscapes,  and  look  down  through  glassy 
waters  and  behold  a  bending  sky  as  soft  and  blue  and  radiant 
with  trembling  stars  as  that  which  bends  above,  I  wonder  what 
mysterious  power  it  is  that  charms  our  people  from  such  a  land. 
But  when  I  cross  the  border  of  this  cloudless,  happy  clime, 
where  a  new  world  reveals  its  charms  to  mankind  and  invites 
the  caresses  of  ambition  and  the  homage  of  honest  endeavor, 
and  where  opportunities  illuminate  the  palaces  of  fortune  and 
the  temple  of  fame,  the  mystery  is  solved.  \Vhen  I  look  upon 
your  colleges  and  universities  and  your  magnificent  cities  and 
towns,  and  behold  there  the  unmistakable  evidence  of  thrift  and 
the  rapid  transitions  from  poverty  to  prosperity;  when  I  look 
into  the  smiling  faces  of  your  people  and  see  the  shadows  of 
heaven  in  every  smile,  I  almost  feel  a  pang  of  regret  that  I  am 
not  a  Texan,  for  surely  this  is  the  land  of  promise  to  those  who 
dream  of  the  glory  of  wealth  and  the  splendor  of  fortune.  To 
the  farmer  it  is  the  garden  of  Eden ;  to  the  politician  it  is  pump- 
kin pie ;  to  the  lawyer  it  is  a  large  slice  of  the  aforesaid  and  the 
same ;  to  the  doctor  it  is  full  of  the  paths  of  glory  that  lead  but 
to  the  grave ;  to  the  merchant  it  is  Klondike ;  and  to  the  preacher 
it  is  "glory  hallelujah." 

'Not  long  ago  I  swimg  around  the  circle  in  Texas,  and  I  dis- 
covered that  Tennesseans  were  either  holding  all  the  offices  or 
were  smiling  with  sweet  prospects  of  the  aforesaid  and  the  same. 
About  every  other  man  I  met  had  been  safely  inducted  into  the 
golden  slippers  of  official  power ;  and  when  I  confronted  the  old, 
familiar  Tennessee  grin,  almost  invariably  this  conversation 
passed  between  us : 

"Hello,  old  fellow !    When  did  you  come  to  Texas  ?" 
"About  two  years  ago,"  quoth  he. 
"And  how  are  you  getting  along  ?"  queried  T. 
"Powerful  fine,"  he  answered,  amid  his  smiles. 
"And  what  are  you  doing  here  ?"  I  asked. 
"Gosh,  I  am  County  Judge!" 


(18) 


282  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

But,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  if  I  should  recount  the  long  list 
of  heroes  and  statesmen  who  came  to  your  State  from  the  grand 
old  Commonwealth  which  I  represent  here  today,  I  am  sure  that 
you  would  agree  with  me  that  Tennessee  is  entitled  to  the  honors 
which  she  receives  from  Texas. 

I  congratulate  your  people  upon  this  magnificent  exhibition 
of  the  fruits  of  your  industry  and  the  products  of  your  soil,  and 
trust  that  as  the  years  roll  by  you  will  grow  in  population  and 
wealth  and  power  until  Texas  shall  be  not  only  the  pride  of  the 
South,  but  of  the  whole  country. 


ADDEESS  AT  THE  UI^VEILING  OF  THE  MONUMENT 
TO  THE  MEMOEY  OF  HOK  ZEBULON  B. 

VANCE,  MAY  10,  1898,  AT  ASHE- 
VILLE,  N.  C. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

I  come  to  join  you  in  paying  the  last  tribute  of  honor  and 
love  to  a  man  whose  life  was  a  burst  of  sunshine  to  his  people 
and  a  blessing  to  his  country. 

When  Zebulon  B.  Vance  was  born,  the  angels  smiled,  his 
mother  pressed  him  to  her  bosom  and  smiled;  and  when  he 
began  to  toddle  from  the  door  of  his  happy  home,  prattling  to 
the  birds  and  chasing  the  butterflies  from  flower  to  flower,  all 
who  saw  him  smiled;  and  soon  smiles  burst  into  laughter  and 
followed  in  his  footsteps  and  cheered  him  all  along  the  journey 
of  life,  from  the  hiunble  cottage  among  the  Carolina  hills  to 
the  magnificent  capital  of  the  republic,  where  he  sat  in  the 
highest  council  of  the  nation,  crowned  with  honors  and  blessed 
with  the  love  and  confidence  of  the  State  which  he  so  grandly 
and  nobly  represented,  until  Death  entered  the  Senate  Chamber 
and  laid  his  icy  hand  upon  the  throbbing  heart  of  mirth  and 
turned  laughter  into  tears. 

Never  again  will  his  people  be  entranced  by  his  eloquence ; 
never  again  will  the  enraptured  multitude  listen  to  the  music 
of  his  voice ;  never  again  will  solemn  Senators  turn  away  from 
their  dignity  to  delight  in  the  glow  of  his  genial  spirit.     The 


ADDRESSES  283 

warmth  of  joy  has  departed  from  his  lips  and  the  light  of  life 
has  vanished  from  his  eyes.  The  star  that  once  shed  glory  on 
the  "Old  N"orth  State"  has  set  forever.  A  coffin,  a  winding 
sheet  and  six  feet  by  two  of  Mother  Earth,  a  monument  and 
precious  memories  are  all  that  is  left  of  the  orator  and  actor, 
the  humanitarian,  the  statesman  and  patriot,  the  pride  of  his 
countrymen,  the  idol  of  his  country. 

The  book  of  his  destiny  is  sealed;  his  pilgrimage  between 
the  two  eternities  has  ended  in  the  tomb.  The  angel  of  death 
has  stopped  the  pendulum  that  vibrated  in  his  bosom,  but  let  us 
rejoice  in  the  hope  that  his  soul  now  swings  to  and  fro  on  angel 
wings  in  the  paradise  of  God. 

It  would  be  presumptuous  folly  for  me  to  parade  in  your 
presence  today  the  noble  traits  of  his  character  and  the  thrilling 
events  of  his  life  which  have  enriched  the  history  of  his  State 
and  made  his  name  immortal.  They  are  thoroughly  kno^vn 
to  all. 

When  I  was  a  barefooted  boy,  romping  among  the  hills  of 
Tennessee,  the  first  news  of  his  fame  and  the  tidings  of  his  mar- 
velous campaigns  used  to  come  floating  over  the  mountains  and 
rippling  with  laughter  into  the  homes  of  our  people.  The  boys 
learned  his  yarns  and  rolled  on  the  floor  with  merriment;  the 
old  ladies  sat  at  the  fireside  and  cackled  at  his  anecdotes,  and 
the  sturdy  old  farmers  listened  to  his  stories  in  the  fields  and 
stopped  their  plows  to  laugh.  His  name  was  on  the  lips  of  all 
as  the  Apostle  of  Sunshine  and  the  Disciple  of  Human  Happi- 
ness. No  power  ever  checked  the  triumphal  march  of  the 
young  mountaineer  to  the  glorious  destiny  which  awaited  him. 
ISTo  political  foe  ever  withstood  his  wit,  and  humor,  and  logic, 
and  matchless  eloquence.  They  were  his  passports  to  the  Legis- 
lature and  to  Congress  while  yet  a  youth  in  his  twenties;  and 
as  he  grew  older  his  power  developed,  his  wings  grew  stronger, 
and  he  became  one  of  the  leading  spirits  of  his  section.  Hi^ 
popularity  was  unparalleled,  his  influence  was  invincible,  and 
he  sat  at  last  as  the  great  war  Governor  of  Xorth  Carolina  until 
the  war  ended,  when  the  doors  of  the  United  States  Senate 
opened  to  receive  him,  where  he  served  his  people  faithfully 
until  the  day  of  his  death. 


284  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

I 

Through  all  his  long  and  brilliant  career  his  love  of  hu- 
manity never  waned  and  his  devotion  for  his  country  never 
cooled.  Always  ready  with  a  charming  story  to  tell,  always 
quick  at  repartee,  always  brimful  of  fun,  he  was  the  great 
laugh-producer  and  side-splitter  of  the  South ;  and  yet  his  logic 
was  as  convincing  as  the  sword  of  Stonewall  Jackson  at  Manas- 
sas or  as  the  guns  of  Dewey  at  Manila.  He  was  as  honest  as 
Davis,  as  humorous  as  Lincoln,  as  eloquent  as  Daniels,  as  true 
to  the  hopes  that  perished  at  Appomattox  as  Gordon  and  For- 
rest, and  afterwards  as  loyal  to  the  Union  as  Wheeler  and  Lee, 
who  now  wear  the  blue. 

Senator  Vance  was  a  splendid  thinker  and  a  statesman  of 
rare  ability;  but  he  always  looked  on  the  bright  side  of  things, 
and  no  music  was  half  so  sweet  to  him  as  the  songs  and  laughter 
of  the  merry  throng  of  country  folks  who  gathered  about  him 
on  every  occasion  with  shouts  and  hallelujahs  to  while  away  the 
happy  hours.  And  thus  his  busy  life  was  spent  in  adding  to 
the  sum  of  human  happiness. 

There  is  a  prevailing  opinion  in  the  world  that  those  who 
have  the  power  to  make  others  laugh,  and  who  dare  to  light 
temples  of  thought  with  windows  of  fun,  are  weak  and  shallow 
and  ought  not  to  wield  the  scepter  of  the  ruler  or  sit  in  the 
councils  of  a  nation.  But  I  have  never  been  able  to  fathom  the 
wisdom  of  such  philosophy.  I  do  not  believe  that  a  heart  of  ice 
is  always  the  badge  of  a  mighty  brain.  I  do  not  believe  that  a 
frowning  brow  is  always  the  token  of  wisdom.  It  is  true  that 
some  great  men  frown,  but  all  who  frown  are  not  great.  It  is 
equally  true  that  a  few  great  men  laugh,  but  it  must  be  confessed 
that  all  who  laugh  are  not  great.  But  I  would  rather  trust  my 
life  and  liberty  in  the  hands  of  a  laughing  fool  than  in  the 
hands  of  a  frowning  tyrant. 

IvTations  do  not  suffer  when  their  rulers  sincerely  smile  and 
govern  with  love  and  mercy ;  but  God  pity  the  land  whose  ruler 
frowns  and  rules  with  an  iron  rod,  and  God  pity  the  ruler  him- 
self, for  the  harvest  of  his  frowns  is  death. 

The  frowns  of  Caesar  made  nations  quake;  but  the  harvest 
of  his  frowns  was  daggers,  concealed  under  the  cloaks  of  shud- 
dering Romans,  until  the  blood  of  Caesar  dripped  from  the  blade 
of  treason  in  the  corridor  of  the  Roman  Capitol. 


ADDRESSES  285 

Napoleon  frowned  and  the  world  trembled;  but  bis  frowns 
were  only  the  prophecies  of  Waterloo,  which  left  the  flower  of 
France  lying  dead  in  pools  of  blood,  while  the  uncrowned  and 
unthroned  I^apoleon  wandered  aimlessly  on  the  battle  field,  the 
"somnambulist  of  a  vast,  shattered  dream." 

The  life  of  Washington  eclipses  the  glory  of  Caesar,  and  the 
beautiful  reign  of  Victoria  outshines  the  romantic  record  of 
Napoleon's  rise  and  fall. 

Bismarck  was  called  the  "Iron  Prince,"  but  it  cost  broken 
hearts  and  libations  of  blood  to  build  the  throne  and  cement  the 
empire  of  Germany.  Glory  encircles  the  brow  of  Bismarck, 
and  yet  the  humblest  German  peasant  who  scatters  sunshine 
with  his  songs  and  dries  the  tears  of  sorrow  with  his  smiles  will 
sleep  sweeter  tonight  in  his  humble  cot  than  the  "Iron  Prince" 
in  his  castle.  I  have  come  to  believe  that  happiness  does  not 
often  dwell  in  a  palace,  for  the  bubbling  soul  of  laughter  does 
not  sit  upon  the  throne  of  the  king,  and  from  the  mirthless  heart 
of  a  tyrant  the  milk  of  human  kindness  never  flows. 

W^here  there  is  no  laughter,  there  is  no  genuine  love;  where 
there  is  no  love,  life  is  a  desert  of  evil ;  where  virtue  trembles 
to  tread,  where  hope  falters,  where  happiness  is  crucified,  music 
is  banished  from  its  joyless  air,  and  all  that  lies  beyond  is  a 
voiceless  shore  and  a  starless  sky. 

Laughter,  and  love,  and  hope,  and  happiness  are  the  com- 
panions of  pleasure,  the  patrons  and  allies  of  civilization,  the 
handmaids  of  religion,  the  evangels  of  God.  They  are  the  guar- 
dian angels  of  every  Christian  home,  the  guiding  star  of  every 
nation's  destiny.  They  fondle  the  child  in  its  cradle ;  they 
linger  with  frolicsome  youth;  they  minister  to  struggling  man- 
hood and  soothe  the  pillow  of  age. 

I  would  rather  be  the  humblest  among  those  who  have  given 
hope  to  the  hopeless  and  happiness  to  the  distressed  of  my  race 
than  to  live  in  history  as  a  conqueror  with  my  hands  stained 
with  innocent  blood ;  I  would  rather  have  my  name  written 
among  those  who  have  loved  their  fellow  man  than  to  wear  the 
laurels  that  encircle  the  brow  of  the  "Iron  Prince;"  I  would 
rather  sleep  in  some  quiet  churchyard,  unknown  and  unremem- 
bered,  save  by  those  in  whose  hearts  I  have  scattered  seeds  of 
kindness  and  upon  whose  lips  I  have  conjured  smiles  of  joy, 


286  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

« 

than  to  be  confined  in  a  sarcophagus  of  gold,  with  desolate  homes 
as  my  monuments  and  widows  and  orphans  as  living  witnesses 
of  my  glory. 

There  is  a  mighty  stream,  whose  waters  are  as  warm  as  a 
summer's  day,  which  flows  noiselessly  as  the  sunshine  through 
the  turbulent  waters  of  the  ocean.  It  carries  on  its  heaving  cur- 
rent health  and  warmth  and  life  to  half  the  world.  It  weaves 
for  England  a  chaplet  of  verdure  and  flowers,  it  cro%vns  green 
Erin  with  the  shamrock  and  rose,  and  flings  a  mantle  of  per- 
petual beauty  on  the  vine-clad  hills  of  France.  Its  soft  airs 
linger  around  the  Orkney  Isles  and  make  them  a  cluster  of 
sunny  jewels  in  the  midst  of  inhospitable  seas ;  and,  still  bearing 
in  its  bosom  that  kindlier  nature  born  of  brighter  climes,  it 
breathes  in  mercy  on  shores  that  touch  the  frozen  one.  It  is  the 
majestic  Gulf  Stream,  the  vehicle  of  the  sun's  life-giving  power. 
It  is  the  smile  of  God  upon  the  waters  which  warms  the  seas 
and  makes  the  earth  blossom  like  the  rose. 

It  is  the  symbol  of  the  lives  of  men  like  him  whose  memory 
we  honor  today — men  whose  warm  and  genial  spirits  meet  and 
mingle  together  like  the  waters  of  the  Gulf  Stream  and  flow  on 
through  the  cold  and  troubled  ocean  of  life,  weaving  chaplets  of 
joy  for  the  brow  of  humanity,  crowning  our  race  with  blessings, 
flinging  the  mantle  upon  mankind,  and  breathing  hope  and  hap- 
piness to  the  whole  world.  It  is  the  glorious  Gulf  Stream  of 
generous  souls  which  has  given  to  civilization  its  flower  gardens 
of  literature,  its  verdure  and  bloom  of  poetry  and  rapturous 
music,  its  humanity,  its  liberty  and  its  religion. 

Its  warm  breath  woke  the  Grecian  civilization  into  life,  which 
gave  to  immortality  the  "Iliad"  of  Homer  and  the  songs  of 
Sappho ;  it  inspired  the  wonderful  art  of  Phidias  and  the  burn- 
ing eloquence  of  Demosthenes ;  it  moved  upon  the  mighty  brain 
of  Plato,  who  turned  the  lens  of  philosophy  and  reason  toward 
heaven  and  caught  glimpses  of  the  only  true  and  living  God ;  it 
kissed  sun-crowned  Italy  and  encircled  the  Roman  Empire  with 
a  halo  of  glory;  it  impelled  Michaelangelo  to  chisel  dreams 
from  the  marble,  and  Raphael  to  spread  his  visions  of  beauty 
and  immortal  colors  upon  the  canvas;  it  touched  the  beautiful 
land  of  the  Rhine,  and  Mozart  and  Mendelssohn  and  Schubert 
and  all  the  great  masters  of  the  Fatherland  turned  the  air  into 


ADDRESSES  287 

music  and  made  joyous  the  homes  and  hearts  of  every  land  with 
its  warbles  and  murmurs  and  the  ebb  and  flow  of  its  silver 
tides;  it  made  France  the  nursery  of  genius  in  poetry,  in  elo- 
quence, in  sculpture  and  in  painting. 

Old  England  received  its  glorious  baptism  and  gave  to  the 
world  "Paradise  Lost"  and  "Hamlet"  and  the  richest  literature 
in  all  the  tide  of  time.  It  warmed  the  hearts  of  pioneers  in  the 
wilderness  of  the  ISTew  World,  and  the  stars  twinkled  to  the 
music  of  the  fiddle  and  the  bow  in  the  log  cabins  of  our  fathers, 
and  thus  it  cheered  them  on  from  camp  to  cottage,  and  from 
cottage  to  mansion,  from  forest  to  waving  fields,  and  from 
waving  fields  to  mighty  cities,  until  it  set  the  world  ablaze  with 
light.  Liberty  was  born  and  the  great  republic  rose  beautiful 
as  the  dream  of  Pericles,  magnificent  as  the  temple  of  the  gods. 
The  joyous  tide  of  immortal  spirts  who  have  fashioned  and 
molded  our  institutions  and  directed  our  country  in  the  path 
of  its  glorious  destiny  is  sweeping  on  to  eternity.  ISTo  sweeter 
spirit  ever  mingled  in  its  flood  than  that  which  stole  away  from 
the  temple  of  dust  which  now  lies  coffined  in  the  shadow  of  this 
beautiful  monument.  He  lived,  and  loved,  and  laughed,  and 
labored  for  his  people  and  for  humanity.  He  planted  the  flow- 
ers of  mirth  and  joy  in  the  hearts  of  others,  and  labored  on 
imtil  the  winter  of  age  w^hitened  his  head  with  the  snow  that 
never  melts ;  but  there  was  no  snow  upon  his  heart ;  'twas  always 
summer  there. 

The  name  of  Zebulon  B.  Vance  is  a  household  word  among 
the  old ;  it  is  the  glorious  heritage  of  the  young. 

Sleep  on,  child  of  genius,  in  the  grave  where  loving  hands 
have  laid  thee ! 

"Unwearied,    unfettered,    unwatched,    unconfined. 
Be  my  spirit  like  thee,  in  the  world  of  the  mind, 
No  yearning  for  earth  e'er  to  weary  its  flight, 
But  fresh  as  thy  pinions  in  regions  of  light." 


288  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT    L.    TAYLOR 

ADDKESS  AT  ST.  LOUIS.  MO.,  ON  JANUARY  8,  1898, 

BEFORE  "THE  ST.  LOUIS  TENNESSEE 

SOCIETY." 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

A  little  more  than  a  century  ago  a  young  man  came  out  of 
his  father's  log  cabin  on  the  border  of  the  Palmetto  State,  and, 
mounting  his  race  horse  and  followed  by  his  pack  of  yelping 
hounds,  plunged  into  the  forest  and  vanished  from  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood  and  the  sweet  associations  of  his  youth. 

How  long  he  tarried  on  the  way  we  know  not ;  but  after  his 
departure  we  first  find  him  in  the  little  village  of  Morganton, 
among  the  hills  of  the  "Old  North  State,"  studying  the  profes- 
sion of  law,  and  then  plunging  again  into  the  trackless  forest. 

Far  up  among  the  North  Carolina  mountains  there  is  a 
spring  bubbling  up  from  the  earth  which  spreads  into  a  still, 
smooth  mirror,  reflecting  the  inverted  images  of  rock,  and  fern, 
and  wild  flower,  and  tree,  and  sky,  where  the  panther  used  to 
come  and  drink  and  then  lie  in  ambush  among  the  laurel  and 
the  ivy  and  watch  for  the  thirsty  deer. 

I  think  the  pilgrim  youth  and  his  weary  steed  and  panting 
hounds  paused  here  to  rest.  I  think  he  kneeled  down  and  drank 
and  reclined  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  and  dreamed  of  the 
glorious  future.  The  spring  gathers  volume  from  the  springs 
that  bubble  up  around  it  until  the  brawling  brook  pours  down 
the  steep  declivities  of  the  mountain  gorges  and  spreads  out  into 
the  majestic  Tennessee  River  in  the  valley  below,  and  the  Ten- 
nessee sweeps  into  the  Ohio,  and  the  Ohio  flows  into  the  Mis- 
sissippi, and  the  Mississippi  rolls  on  to  the  sea — emblematic  of 
the  destiny  of  the  youth  who  drank  from  the  spring  and  dreamed 
there  among  his  hounds  at  the  fountain-head  of  the  mighty 
river. 

But  little  did  the  world  know  that  the  wandering  dreamer 
at  the  lonely  spring  in  the  Avilderness  was  at  the  fountain-head 
of  a  career  which  would  some  day  change  the  destinies  of  na- 
tions; little  did  the  savage  Indian  tribes  of  the  South  know,  as 
they  brandished  the  tomahawk  and  torch  in  the  face  of  civiliza- 
tion, that  a  young  chieftain,  whose  sword  would  prove  more  ter- 
rible than  the  resistless  floods  of  a  hundred  angry  rivers,  would 


ADDRESSES  289 

soon  follow  the  shining  trail  of  waters  westward  to  sweep  them 
from  the  planet ;  little  did  the  haughty  British  monarch  know, 
as  he  sat  upon  his  throne  in  the  Old  World  amid  the  pomp  and 
pageantry  of  imperial  power  and  glory,  that  an  eagle  would 
soon  swoop  do^vn  from  the  mountains  in  the  ISTew  World  to 
grapple  with  the  invading  lion,  and  that  liberty's  uncrowned 
king,  enthroned  in  the  saddle,  would  soon  strike  a  blow  at  l^evf 
Orleans  which  would  send  the  power  of  the  British  Empire  reel- 
ing backward  from  the  American  shore. 

While  the  young  hero  still  rested  there  at  the  spring,  un- 
conscious of  the  glory  that  awaited  him,  I  think  he  watched  the 
pilgrim  waters  dashing  westward  over  the  gray  cliffs  and  van- 
ishing in  the  shadows  below,  and  I  think  he  heard  them  mur- 
muring a  prophecy  of  broader  streams  beyond,  winding  lazily 
through  gorgeous  landscapes  and  rich  valleys,  worthy  to  become 
the  habitation  of  the  areatest  American  who  ever  lived.     But 
while  he  watched  and  hoped  and  dreamed,  I  think  he  heard  the 
rustling  of  the  leaves  and  saw  an  antlered  buck  emerge  from  the 
honeysuckles  and  sniff  the  air  for  a  moment,  and  then,  as  quick 
as  thought,  dash  away  into  the  forest.     I  think  he  leaped  into 
the  saddle  and  blew  his  hunter's  horn,  which  woke  the  sleeping 
pack;  and  instantly  the  hunter  and  his  eager  hounds  were  hot 
upon  the  trail,  and  the  music  of  the  chase  rose  and  fell  and  fell 
and  rose  from  hollow  to  hill  and  from  hill  to  hollow  like  the 
music  of  a  hundred  chiming  bells.     Down  the  roaring  stream 
for  miles  and  miles  bounded  the  trembling  deer,  leaping  over 
rocks,   springing  through   shoals   and  swimming  the  whirling 
eddies  in  the  vain  endeavor  to  elude  the  bellowing  pack,  which 
followed  with  smoking  mouths  in  full  cry,  closer  and  closer 
behind  him.     And  when  the  shadows  of  the  evening  began  to 
lengthen,  I  think  the  child  of  nature  and  of  destiny  kindled 
his  camp  fire  on  the  gi-assy  brink  of  the  beautiful  Watauga, 
and,  with  his  jaded  hounds,  feasted  that  night  on  venison. 

Not  far  from  where  he  slumbered  the  town  of  Jonesboro 
nestles  among  the  green  hills.  It  is  the  oldest  town  in  Tennessee. 
It  was  a  metropolis  before  St.  Louis  was  ever  dreamed  of,  and 
its  old  log  courthouse  was  a  temple  of  justice  before  the  bound- 
ary lines  of  Missouri  were  ever  on  the  map  of  the  world.  Here 
the  young  immigrant  lawyer  began  his  wonderful  career  in 


290  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

Tennessee,  He  entered  the  little  village  on  his  journey,  and 
lived  in  it  more  than  a  year,  and  practiced  law  and  joined  in  the 
manly  sports  of  the  mountaineers.  But  the  mountains  cannot 
hold  the  rivers;  neither  could  they  hold  the  restless  spirit  of 
Andrew  Jackson. 

There  was  another  pilgrimage  from  Jonesboro  to  the  set- 
tlement on  the  Cumberland  where  now  gleam  and  glitter  the 
domes  and  spires  of  Nashville,  the  beautiful  capital  of  Ten- 
nessee. 

The  war  of  the  Revolution  had  been  fought  and  won.  The 
yoimg  republic  was  extending  its  dominion  westward.  Slowly, 
but  surely,  wild  beast  and  savage  Indian  were  retreating  toward 
the  setting  sun  before  the  advancing  Saxon  and  Celt,  overawed 
and  overmatched  by  their  brain  and  brawn.  It  was  here  among 
these  perilous  environments  that  the  sublime  powers  of  Andrew 
Jackson  began  to  wake  like  the  live  thunders  of  the  gathering 
storm.  It  was  then  the  heart  of  the  wilderness;  it  is  now  the 
heart  of  the  South ;  it  is  the  warm,  throbbing  heart  of  Tennessee 
and  Tennessee  is  the  heart  of  the  Western  Hemisphere.  Ten- 
nessee lies  on  the  happiest  lines  of  latitude  and  longitude  which 
girdle  the  globe;  she  lies  on  the  dividing  line  between  the  two 
great  agricultural  regions  of  the  world.  On  the  south  are  the 
tropical  fruits  and  flowers  and  cotton  fields,  where  labor  toils 
and  sings  and  tosses  the  snowy  bales  by  the  millions  into  the 
lap  of  commerce ;  on  the  north  are  the  fruits  and  cereals  of  the 
ISTorth  Temperate  Zone,  where  industry  smiles  and  pours  its 
streams  of  amber  and  gold  into  the  garners  of  nations.  But 
Tennessee  combines  them  both.  The  pecans  of  the  South  fall 
among  the  hickorynuts  of  the  l^orth  on  her  soil;  the  magnolia 
blooms  in  the  same  grove  where  the  Northern  apple  ripens ;  the 
Georgia  plum  w^ooes  the  blushing  peach  of  Delaware ;  corn  and 
cotton,  blue  grass  and  wheat,  all  grow  in  adjoining  fields;  while 
the  mocking  bird  and  the  snowbird  sing  and  chatter  together 
on  bough  and  bush  away  down  in  Tennessee. 

I  sometimes  think  that  when  Civilization  first  peeped  over 
the  Alleghanies  and  looked  down  upon  the  gorgeous  landscape 
below,  she  shouted  back  to  the  advancing  hosts :  "Lo,  this  is 
Paradise  regained !"  Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  this  beauty 
spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth  long  ago  became  the  shrine  of 


ADDRESSES  29 1 

heroes  and  statesmen  ?     Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  star  of  des- 
tiny guided  the  peerless  Jackson  here  to  live  and  die? 

The  world  knows  the  romantic  history  of  this  wonderful 
man.  It  is  not  for  me  to  repeat  it  here  today.  His  life  was 
full  of  storms.  He  was  the  thunderbolt  of  war,  but  his  battles 
were  all  fought  for  liberty  and  human  happiness.  He  was  the 
rugged  type  of  the  rugged  times  in  which  he  figured  and  of 
the  rugged  men  whom  he  led  to  victory  and  to  glory. 

AVhether  we  view  him  in  the  fox  chase  or  deer  hunt  or  at 
the  horse  race,  where  he  was  king,  or  whether  we  view  him 
entering  the  rude  courthouse  at  Gallatin  as  United  States  District 
Attorney,  and  signalizing  his  advent  to  public  life  by  thrashing 
a  band  of  outlaws  who  refused  to  be  tried  and  compelling  them 
to  submit  to  the  sentence  of  the  court,  or  as  judge,  leaving  the 
bench  at  Jonesboro  and  collaring  the  defiant  Bean,  who  had 
bluffed  the  sheriff  and  his  posse,  or  whether  we  contemplate 
him  gathering  his  stalwart  Tennessee  volunteers  around  him 
and  marching  through  the  perils  and  dangers  of  the  wilderness 
to  drive  the  fierce  Indian  tribes  to  the  sea,  or  at  ISTew  Orleans, 
guarding  the  Legislature  with  a  regiment  in  his  rear,  while  he 
met  the  British  in  the  front  and  hurled  them  back  across  the 
sea,  he  was  the  same  invincible,  unconquerable  spirit  who  shat- 
tered every  opposition  which  confronted  him  in  life.  He  was  as 
powerful  in  the  arena  of  politics  as  he  was  terrible  on  the 
battle  field.  ]^o  foe,  however  formidable,  could  cope  with  him ; 
no  maneuver,  however  brilliant,  could  check  his  triumphal  march 
to  the  highest  office  in  the  world. 

Like  a  giant,  he  strode  into  the  White  House  and  sat 
down  in  the  presidential  chair,  and,  lifting  his  bony  hand  toward 
heaven,  while  his  hair  stood  on  his  head  like  the  mane  of  a 
lion,  he  postponed  the  Civil  War  for  a  quarter  of  a  century 
with  the  exclamation:  "By  the  Eternal,  the  Union  must  and 
shall  be  preserved !" 

But  "Old  Hickory"  has  passed  away.  The  hand  that  once 
wielded  the  sword  for  country  and  liberty  was  dust  long  ago. 
But  the  dominion  of  the  republic  for  which  he  fought  now 
stretches 

"From  Maine's  dark  pines  and  crags  of  snow, 
To  where  magnolia  breezes  blow," 


292  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

and  touches  the  two  great  oceans  that  divide  the  world.  But 
where  are  the  policies  of  government  -w^hich  he  cherished  and 
defended?  Where  is  the  equal  and  exact  justice  to  all,  with 
special  privileges  to  none?  Where  are  the  powers  and  privi- 
leges of  States  to  manage  and  control  their  own  domestic  affairs  ? 
Where  is  the  protection  of  the  people  against  the  oppression  of 
combined  power  and  aggregated  wealth  ?  Where  is  the  ideal  of 
Abraham  Lincoln:  "A  government  of  the  people,  for  the  peo- 
ple, and  by  the  people?" 

Have  we  not  drifted  away  from  the  splendid  safeguards  and 
bulwarks  of  government  which  were  established  by  our  fathers  ? 
Andrew  Jackson  bridled  the  money  power,  but  the  money  power 
has  long  since  slipped  the  bridle.  Andrew  Jackson  curbed  the 
encroachments  of  centralization,  but  centralization  has  taken 
the  bit  in  its  teeth  and  broken  the  curb,  and  is  now  plunging 
madly  toward  absolute  monarchy.  The  policies  of  our  modern 
government  have  given  the  power  to  a  few  men  to  fix  the  price 
of  meat  and  bread  at  the  cost  of  production  to  those  who  pro- 
duce, only  to  raise  it  at  their  own  sweet  will  to  those  who  con- 
sume. A  few  men  control  the  arteries  of  trade.  A  few  manu- 
facturers live  on  the  juice  of  protection,  and  the  juice  of  pro- 
tection is  the  sweat  and  blood  of  the  people.  Money  has  be- 
come a  mystery  to  the  millions,  and  is  manipulated  by  the  gi-eat 
financiers  as  the  magician  manipulates  the  coin.  He  holds  it 
up  and  says,  "Look,  gentlemen,  look;  now  you  see  it,  and  now 
you  don't  see  it;"  and  when  the  people  feel  in  their  pockets, 
their  last  dollar  is  gone. 

Too  often  the  door  to  high  and  honorable  positions  can  only 
be  opened  with  a  key  of  gold. 

Andrew  Jackson  never  dreamed  of  a  government  by  injunc- 
tion, but  now  the  Federal  power  can  throw  the  lariat  of  a  re- 
straining order  and  hobble  a  sovereign  State  and  paralyze  the 
enforcement  of  its  laws. 

Mr.  Chairman,  from  my  earliest  childhood  I  was  taught  by 
my  now  sainted  father  and  mother  to  believe  in  the  religion 
of  Christ  and  to  pray  to  the  Creator  of  the  universe  for  his 
mercy  and  his  blessings.  I  would  that  I  could  persuade  the 
American  people  to  get  down  on  their  knees  tonight  and  fer- 
vently breathe  this  prayer:  "O  God,  give  our  country  another 
Andrew  Jackson!" 


ADDRESSES  293 

ADDKESS  TO  THE  OLD  CONFEDERATES  AT  THE 

CONFEDERATE  REUNION  AT  BROWNSVILLE, 

TENN.,  IN  AUGUST,  1902. 

Time  in  its  tireless  flight  has  brought  us  again  to  the  full  leaf 
and  flower  of  another  summer.  The  grass  grows  green  about 
the  dust  of  heroes,  the  roses  twine  once  more  about  their  tombs, 
and  the  morning  glories  point  their  purple  bugles  toward  the 
sky  as  if  to  sound  a  reveille  to  our  immortal  dead.  Another 
year,  with  its  sunshine  and  its  shadows,  its  laughter  and  its 
tears,  its  sowing  and  its  reaping,  its  cradle  songs  and  funeral 
hymns,  now  lies  between  us  and  that  dark  day  at  Appomattox 
when  the  star  of  Southern  hope  went  down  and  the  flag  of  South- 
ern chivalry  was  furled  forever.  Another  year  has  added  whiter 
locks  to  the  temples  of  those  old  soldiers  who  wore  the  gray,  and 
deeper  furrows  to  their  brows;  and  they  now  stand  among  us 
like  solitary  oaks  in  the  midst  of  a  fallen  forest,  hoary  with 
age,  covered  with  scars,  and  glorious  as  the  living  monuments 
of  Southern  manhood  and  Southern  courage. 

But  we  are  not  yet  far  enough  away  from  that  awful  struggle 
to  forget  the  bloody  hills  of  Shiloh,  where  Albert  Sidney  John- 
ston died,  and  the  fatal  field  of  Chancellorsville,  where  Stonewall 
Jackson  fell;  we  are  not  yet  far  enough  away  to  forget  the 
frowning  heights  of  Gettysburg,  where  Pickett's  charging  lines 
rushed  to  glory  and  the  grave ;  we  are  not  yet  far  enough  away  to 
forget  Murfreesboro,  Missionary  Ridge,  and  Chickamauga,  and 
the  hundred  other  fields  of  death  and  courage,  where  the  flower  of 
the  South,  the  bravest  of  the  best  and  the  truest  of  the  true, 
fought  for  the  cause  they  thought  was  right  and  died  for  the  land 
they  loved ;  we  are  not  yet  far  enough  away  to  forget  the  agony 
and  the  tears  of  a  nation  that  was  crushed  when  the  shat- 
tered armies  of  Lee  and  Johnston — weary,  half-starved,  bare- 
footed, and  in  rags — stacked  their  arms  in  the  gloom  of  defeat 
and  left  the  field  of  valor,  overwhelmed  and  overpowered,  yet 
undaunted  and  unconquered.  When  time  has  measured  off  a 
thousand  years,  the  world  will  not  forget  the  sufferings  and  the 
sacrifices  of  the  brave  men  who  so  freely  gave  their  fortimes  and 
shed  their  blood  to  preserve  the  most  brilliant  civilization  that 
ever  flourished  in  any  land  or  in  any  age. 


294  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

Historians  will  some  day  sit  down  on  our  battle  field  and 
write  true  history — history  that  will  surpass  the  wildest  dreams 
of  fancy  that  were  ever  woven  into  fiction ;  and  poets  will  linger 
among  our  graves  and  sing  sweeter  songs  than  were  ever  sung 
before;  for  each  monument  is  within  itself  a  volume  of  wild 
and  thrilling  adventure,  and  every  tombstone  tells  a  story  touch- 
ing as  the  soldier's  last  tear  on  the  white  bosom  of  his  man- 
hood's bride,  tender  as  his  last  farewell. 

I  would  not  utter  a  word  of  bitterness  against  the  men  who 
wore  the  blue.  They  fought  and  died  under  the  old  flag  to  per- 
petuate the  Union,  and  they  were  men  worthy  of  Southern 
prowess  and  Southern  valor.  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  rob  Grant 
the  great  and  noble  chieftain,  of  his  fame  and  glory.  Every 
Southern  soldier  ought  to  stand  with  uncovered  head  when  his 
name  is  spoken;  for  when  all  was  lost,  in  the  darkest  and  sad- 
dest moment  of  Southern  history,  he  was  magnanimous  to  Lee 
and  his  famished  and  shattered  army.  Along  the  blue  lines  of 
the  triumphant  foe,  when  the  unhappy  Confederates  marched 
between  them  and  laid  down  their  guns,  there  was  no  shout  of 
victory  nor  flourish  of  trumpets,  but  only  silence  and  tears  of 
sympathy. 

When  the  conflict  had  ended,  the  Confederate  soldier  proud- 
ly stood  among  the  blackened  walls  of  his  ruined  country,  mag- 
nificent in  the  gloom  of  defeat,  and  still  a  hero.  His  sword 
was  broken,  his  home  was  in  ashes,  the  earth  was  red  beneath 
him,  the  sky  was  black  above  him.  He  had  placed  all  in  the 
scales  of  war,  and  had  lost  all  save  honor;  but  he  did  not  sit 
down  in  despair  to  weep  away  the  passing  years. 

His  slaves  were  gone,  but  he  was  still  a  master.  Too  proud 
to  pine,  too  strong  to  yield  to  adversity,  he  threw  down  his  mus- 
ket and  laid  his  willing  but  unskilled  hands  upon  the  waiting 
plow.  He  put  away  the  knapsack  of  war  and  turned  his  face 
toward  the  morning  of  peace.  He  abandoned  the  rebel  yell  to 
enter  the  forum  and  the  courtroom  and  the  hustings;  he  gave 
up  the  sword  to  enter  the  battles  of  industry  and  commerce; 
and  now,  in  little  more  than  a  third  of  a  century,  the  land  of 
desolation  and  death,  the  land  of  monuments  and  memories,  has 
reached  the  springtime  of  a  grander  destiny,  and  the  sun  shines 
bright  on  the  domes  and  towers  of  new  cities  built  upon  the 


ADDRESSES  295 

ashes  of  the  old,  and  the  cotton  fields  wave  their  white  banners 
of  peace,  and  the  fields  of  wheat  wave  back  their  banners  of 
gold. 

Who  can  portray  the  possibilities  of  a  country  that  has  pro- 
duced the  Lees  and  Jacksons  and  the  brilliant  Gordon  and  the 
dashing  Joe  Wheeler,  who  is  as  gallant  in  the  blue  as  he  was 
glorious  in  the  gray,  and  the  impetuous  and  immortal  Bedford 
Forrest,  the  Marshal  Ney  of  the  Confederacy?  Who  can  por- 
tray the  possibilities  of  a  country  which  has  produced  the  stal- 
wart and  sinewy  men  of  the  rank  and  file,  who  followed  the 
Stars  and  Bars  through  the  smoke  and  flame  of  every  desperate 
battle  and  stepped  proudly  into  history  as  the  greatest  fighters 
the  world  has  ever  known — a  country  so  richly  blessed,  not  only 
with  brave  men  and  beautiful  women,  but  whose  blossoming 
hills  and  fertile  valleys  are  so  generous  and  kind,  whose  moun- 
tains are  burdened  with  coal  and  iron  and  copper  and  zinc  and 
lead  enough  to  supply  the  world  for  a  thousand  years,  whose 
virgin  forests  yet  stand  awaiting  and  sighing  for  the  woodman's 
ax,  and  whose  winding  rivers  flow  clear  and  cool  and  make  music 
as  they  go  ?  It  is  the  beautiful  land  of  love  and  liberty,  of  sun- 
shine and  sentiment,  of  fruits  and  flowers,  where  the  grape- 
vine staggers  from  tree  to  tree  as  if  drunk  with  the  wine  of  its 
own  purple  clusters,  where  peach  and  plum  and  blood-red 
cherries  and  every  kind  of  berry  bend  bough  and  bush  and  glow 
like  showered  drops  of  rubies  and  pearls.  It  is  the  land  of  the 
magnolia  and  the  melon,  the  paradise  of  the  cotton  and  the  cane. 

They  tell  us  now  that  it  is  the  new  South ;  but  the  same  old 
blood  rims  in  the  veins  of  these  veterans,  and  the  same  old 
spirit  heaves  their  bosoms  and  flashes  in  their  eyes ;  the  same 
old  soldiers  who  wielded  the  musket  long  ago  are  nursing  their 
grandchildren  on  their  knees  and  teaching  them  the  same  old 
lessons  of  honor  and  truth  and  the  same  old  love  of  liberty ;  the 
mocking  bird  sings  the  same  old  songs  in  the  same  old  tree,  and 
the  brooks  laugh  and  leap  down  the  same  old  hollows.  It  is  the 
same  old  South,  and  we  are  the  same  old  Southern  people. 

"There  may  be  skies  as  blue,  but  none  bluer; 
There  may  be  hearts  as  true,  but  none  truer." 


296  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

It  is  the  same  old  land  of  the  free  and  the  same  old  home  of  the 
brave.    It  is  the  same  old  South  resurrected  from  the  dead. 

Within  the  borders  of  this  fair  land  of  Dixie  the  finest  oppor- 
tunities for  investment  and  the  richest  fields  for  enterj)rise  ever 
known  in  the  Western  Hemisphere  are  now  open  to  all  who  wish 
to  come  and  help  us  to  make  it  blossom  like  the  rose.  A  new  de- 
velopment has  already  begun.  Thirty  years  ago  there  was  not 
a  factory  in  South  Carolina ;  today  she  is  spinning  and  Aveaving 
more  cotton  than  she  raises  and  is  second  only  to  Massachusetts 
in  the  manufacture  of  cotton  goods;  and  North  Carolina  and 
Georgia  have  made  eaual  progress  with  South  Carolina  in  this 
new  idea  of  making  the  South  not  only  the  leader  in  agricul- 
ture, but  also  in  converting  our  raw  material  into  finished  arti- 
cles of  commerce  and  trade,  and  thus  saving  to  our  section  count- 
less millions  of  wealth.  In  the  mountains  of  Southwestern 
Virginia,  Southeastern  Kentucky,  East  Tennessee,  North  Ala- 
bama, where  the  sunshine  plays  hide  and  seek  with  the  shadows 
and  where  many  rivers  are  born,  there  is  a  beautiful  valley  six 
hundred  miles  in  length  and  from  one  to  thirty  miles  wide.  Until 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  the  principal  product  of  that  country 
was  children.  The  people  did  not  realize  that  the  north  rim  of 
the  valley  was  almost  an  unbroken  vein  of  coal  and  that  the 
South  was  an  exhaustless  bed  of  iron,  and  they  placed  but  little 
value  on  the  vast  parks  of  timber  where  the  ax  had  never  gleam- 
ed; but  now  the  dynamite  has  just  begim  to  jar  the  silent  hills 
and  the  forests  have  just  begun  to  fall.  Birmingham  is  making 
the  sky  of  night  red  with  the  glare  of  her  furnaces,  and  all  the 
way  up  the  valley  to  the  new  city  of  Roanoke  new  furnaces  are 
being  lighted  and  new  industries  are  developing;  and  Hunts- 
ville,  Decatur,  Chattanooga,  Knoxville,  Johnson  City,  and  Bris- 
tol, on  the  line,  will  soon  be  great  manufacturing  centers,  where 
the  pig  iron  and  the  logs  of  hardwood  that  are  now  being  shipped 
away  to  be  converted  into  finished  articles  will  pass  through  our 
own  mills,  and  we  will  cease  to  be  the  fools  we  have  been 
in  the  past,  buying  furniture  made  in  foreign  cities  out  of  our 
own  timber,  and  all  the  implements  of  agriculture  made  from 
our  own  iron. 

Until  twenty  years  ago  the  sons  of  Mississippi,  Louisiana,  and 
Arkansas  were  contented  to  sit  on  their  verandas  and  watch  the 


ADDRESSES  297 

"nigger"  and  his  lazy  mule  in  the  cotton  field  and  listen  to  the 
melodies  of  the  old  plantation ;  but  now  the  mills  of  Mississippi 
are  beginning  to  mingle  their  music  with  these  melodies,  and  the 
marshes  of  Louisiana  are  being  converted  into  rice  fields,  and  she 
is  making  enough  sugar  today  to  sweeten  the  tooth  of  the  world. 
Arkansas  is  building  factories  and  opening  her  mines  and  min- 
eral wealth  and  sawing  down  her  great  forests  of  pine.  At  tlie 
close  of  the  Civil  War  Texas  was  a  wilderness,  but  now  the  howl 
of  the  wolf  has  given  place  to  the  whistle  of  the  engine  and  the 
whoop  of  the  Indian  has  been  hushed  by  the  music  of  machinery. 
From  Texarkana  to  El  Paso  prosperous  cities  and  towns  have 
sprung  up  like  prairie  flowers  where  the  wild  horse  once  gal- 
loped and  the  buffalo  grazed,  and  great  geysers  of  coal  oil  have 
solved  the  fuel  problem. 

In  the  full  development  of  this  new  idea  of  transforming 
our  raw  material  into  finished  goods  lies  our  hope  of  regaining 
our  prestige  and  power  in  the  management  of  national  affairs, 
and  of  winning  back  billions  of  wealth  which  were  wiped  out 
by  the  destroying  angel  of  war.  God  grant  that  our  beloved  old 
South  may  be  as  happy  in  reaping  the  golden  harvest  of  pros- 
perity in  the  years  to  come  as  she  has  been  brave  and  true 
through  the  suffering  and  woes  of  adversity  in  the  sorrowful 
years  of  the  past. 

And  now,  my  grizzled  old  friends  who  once  wore  the  gray, 
in  the  name  of  the  young  men  I  congi-atulate  you  upon  havijig 
lived  to  see  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  for  your  battle-scarred 
and  war-swept  country.  You  must  soon  answer  to  the  roll  call 
of  eternity  and  join  your  comrades  on  the  other  side.  I  give 
you  the  pledge  of  your  sons  that  they  will  ever  defend  the 
record  you  have  made  and  themselves  live  up  to  the  traditions  of 
their  fathers.  In  the  name  of  our  women,  both  young  and  old, 
I  implore  the  blessing  of  the  Lord  upon  you,  and  pray  that  as 
the  dews  of  life's  evening  are  condensing  on  your  brows  and  the 
shadows  of  the  long,  long  night  are  gathering  about  you,  you  may 
linger  long  in  the  twilight,  with  loving  hands  to  lead  you  and 
loving  hearts  to  bless. 


(tt) 


298  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

UNDELIVERED  SPEECH  PREPARED  FOR  THE  CAM- 
PAIGN OF  1912. 

Fellow-Citizens : 

The  ceaseless  flight  of  the  circling  years  has  brought  us 
to  the  close  of  another  quadrennial  cycle,  and  we  stand  face  to 
face  with  another  great  political  struggle  in  America. 

All  is  well  for  the  National  Democracy  in  1912.  God  grant 
that  all  may  be  well  for  the  Democracy  of  Tennessee. 

There  are  none  who  breathe  this  prayer  so  fervently  as  those 
who  have  given  the  strength  of  their  manhood  and  all  they  ever 
had  to  its  service.  It  is  the  pride  of  my  life,  as  I  approach  the 
winter  of  age,  that  I  belong  to  that  company. 

Thirteen  times  I  have  borne  its  banner  from  the  mountains 
to  the  Mississippi,  proclaiming  its  principles  to  the  people. 

Twelve  times  I  bore  it  to  victory. 

But  in  1910  the  old  party  was  "dissevered,  discordant,  bel- 
ligerent, and  rent  with  civil  feuds,"  and  I  felt  it  my  supreme 
duty  to  leave  the  Senate  and  appeal  to  my  divided  party  to  lay 
down  their  animosities  and  sheathe  their  tongues  of  bitterness 
and  fight  once  more  together  in  a  common  cause.  I  knew  it 
was  a  perilous  step,  but 

I  threw  my  hat  in  the  ring, 

I  threw  myself  in  the  fray, 

I  thought  I  could  settle  the  thing. 

But  the  harmony  band  wouldn't  play. 

They  fought  among  themselves  with  their  horns,  and  old 
Democrats  clubbed  their  guns  on  each  other  all  along  the  battle 
line. 

It  was  my  thirteenth  campaign,  and  thirteen  is  the  unlucky 
number. 

I  soon  discovered  that  I  was  attempting  to  lead  thirteen 
different  brands  of  Democracy  to  victory. 

But  when  I  fell  at  last,  bleeding,  at  thirteen  places,  with 
thirteen  rents  in  the  old  standard  as  it  trailed  in  the  dust  of 
disaster,  it  looked  to  me  like  thirteen  hells  had  broken  loose  in 
Georgia  and  thirteen  Hoopers  were  elected  Governor  of  Ten- 
nessee. 

Fellow-citizens,  you  may  call  me  superstitious  if  you  will. 


ADDRESSES  299 

But  I  was  hoodooed  in  1910, 
And  I'll  never  be  hoodooed  agam. 

I  would  spend  the  day  in  a  fence  corner  before  I  would 
occupy  room  13  in  a  palace;  I  would  sit  up  all  night  in  the 
smoker  before  they  could  get  me  in  section  13  on  a  sleeper. 
And  let  me  give  you  a  buckeye  of  wisdom  to  carry  around  in 
your  pockets,  boys;  I  will  give  it  to  you  in  rhyme: 

When  the  world  turns  against  you, 

And  the  people  get  mean, 
There  is  somewhere  about  you 

That  number  thirteen. 

But  what's  the  use  to  mourn  over  wrecked  hopes  and  shat- 
tered dreams?  What's  the  use  to  weep  over  spilt  milk  and 
the  broken  fiddle  strings  of  harmony  in  1910  ? 

The  past  is  dead,  let  it  bury  its  dead.  The  present  is  ours 
with  plenty  of  cream,  and  the  fiddle  of  old-time  Democracy  is 
strung  again. 

The  future  is  before  us  with  glorious  opportunities  beckon- 
ing from  its  misty  summit,  and  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  climb. 
The  God  of  ISTations  will  do  the  rest. 

I  am  not  here  to  shed  tears  over  the  grave  of  my  thirteenth 
campaign,  but  rather  to  enter  the  fourteenth  with  hallelujahs 
on  my  lips,  and  to  rejoice  with  you  in  the  prospect  of  a  complete 
Democratic  triumph  in  Tennessee,  and  the  election  of  a  Demo- 
cratic President  of  the  United  States  of  America. 

I  am  not  here  as  an  agitator,  but  as  a  peace-maker,  and  to 
join  in  the  effort  to  allay  the  spirit  of  factional  strife  which  has 
so  long  disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  our  people  and  to  stop  the 
forest  fires  of  passion  which  have  licked  the  very  skies  and  well- 
nigh  driven  the  old  Volunteer  State  into  the  turbulent  sea  of 
Republicanism. 

We  cannot  blame  the  Republicans  for  fanning  the  flames  of 
Democratic  factionalism ;  it  is  their  only  hope  in  Tennessee, 

They  have  skillfully  played  the  game  and  we  now  have  a 
Republican  Governor  in  our  State  Capitol,  and  every  depart- 
ment of  the  Commonwealth  is  teeming  witli  Republican  office- 
holders. Does  the  Government  at  Washington,  presided  over 
by  President  Taft,  differ  from  our  State  Government  with 
Hooper  at  the  helm  ? 


300  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

Have  our  people  embraced  the  doctrine  and  policies  which 
they  have  so  long  condemned  as  destructive  to  our  free  institu- 
tions ? 

Have  they  deserted  the  sacred  things  for  which  their  fathers 
fought  and  died  ?  Have  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  living 
principles  of  personal  liberty  and  the  inalienable  right  of  every 
State  in  the  Union  to  control  its  own  domestic  affairs,  unmo- 
lested by  the  Federal  Government  or  by  any  other  power  under 
the  sun? 

If  they  have,  they  are  aiding  and  abetting  in  the  destruction 
of  the  best  Government  ever  conceived  by  the  brain  of  man,  and 
putting  to  open  shame  the  State  that  gave  them  birth. 

Fellow-Citizens,  we  must  face  conditions  as  they  exist  and 
prepare  to  meet  the  last  great  struggle  for  the  supremacy  of 
Democratic  ideals  and  Democratic  Government,  not  only  in  Ten- 
nessee but  in  the  Nation;  and  I  come  today  to  appeal  to  the 
people  to  turn  away  from  the  storm-swept  forum  of  passion  and 
listen  to  the  voice  of  reason. 

A  Republican  Governor  is  in  our  Capitol  and  we  are  com- 
pletely under  Republican  rule  in  the  land  of  Andrew  Jackson. 

But  where  is  that  millennium  of  law  and  order  that  was  to 
dawn  upon  the  State  when  the  "Good  Angels"  came  into  power  ? 

Where  are  all  those  reforms  that  were  to  blossom  on  the 
trees  and  shed  their  fragrance  on  the  desert  air  ? 

Where  is  that  ladder  of  Utopian  dreams  set  up  by  this  mod- 
ern Jacob,  and  reaching  from  earth  to  heaven,  with  spirits  of 
the  blest  ascending  and  descending,  bearing  baskets  of  Repub- 
lican promises  to  Democratic  Tennessee? 

These  miracles  were  wrought  on  the  imaginations  of  men  for 
political  purposes.  The  promised  blessings  never  came  and  they 
never  will  come  till  we  have  universal  peace,  universal  religion 
and  the  universal  brotherhood  of  man. 

But,  fellow  citizens,  it  is  not  my  purpose  now  to  engage  in 
the  discussion  of  questions  which  will  soon  be  debated  by  can- 
didates for  the  Legislature  and  for  Governor  and  for  other  high 
offices  in  the  State. 

I  have  been  five  years  in  the  Senate.  It  is  not  a  bed  of  roses, 
but  it  is  the  best  job  I  ever  had.  It  has  not  made  me  rich  with 
bags  of  gold,  but  it  is  the  highest  position  of  trust  and  honor 


ADDRESSES  301 

in  the  gift  of  my  State,  and  I  prize  that  above  all  the  sordid 
wealth  of  this  world. 

I  have  not  stood  on  a  pedestal  of  greatness  and  glory,  I  have 
never  played  to  the  galleries,  but  I  have  been  faithful  and  true 
to  the  people,  and  I  bring  all  the  victories  I  have  won  in  the 
past,  and  all  the  things  I  have  stood  for  in  the  Senate  and  lay 
them  at  your  feet,  and  pray  that  the  lightning  may  strike  me 
again. 

My  political  opponents  smile  on  me  between  campaigns,  but 
the  moment  I  go  into  a  canvass  for  glory  and  a  crown. 

Their  smiles  are  frozen  into  frowns, 
And  daggers  underneath  their  gowns 
Impatient,  wait  for  sudden  use, 
And  Satan  turns  the  goblins  loose 
When  I'm  a  candidate. 

But  watch  me,  boys,  this  time!  I  didn't  have  any  chance 
at  all  before — only  nineteen  days  to  fight  in.  If  I  could  have 
had  but  thirteen  more,  I  would  have  made  thirteen  the  unlucky 
number  for  Mr.  Hooper.  But  I'm  loaded  now  for  the  scrimmage 
and  my  gun  is  seven  feet  long. 

I  am  weighted  dovm  with  revolvers  and  bowie  knives  a 
plenty.  My  blessed  Red  Xecks  and  the  boys  from  town  and  the 
drummers  from  everywhere  are  spoiling  for  the  fight,  and  we 
can  whip  an  army  of  wildcats  before  breakfast.  The  wolves  of 
Republicanism  and  the  goblins  of  special  privilege  must  hunt  for 
tall  timber,  must  take  to  the  swamps  and  marshes,  for  we  are 
going  to  have  a  mighty  snake-killing  in  Tennessee. 

"We  are  like  the  old  farmer  from  away  up  at  the  head  of  the 
creek  who  diked  himself  in  his  brand  new  shad-belly  coat  and 
flap  breeches  and  joyfully  went  to  the  circus.  He  viewed  the 
lions  and  tigers,  and  laughed  himself  into  spasms  at  the  pranks 
and  jokes  of  the  clown. 

And  finally  he  visited  the  sideshow  where  there  was  a  large 
glass  cage  full  of  snakes  of  every  variety.  He  looked  at  it  a 
moment  and  then  seized  a  handspike  that  lay  at  his  feet,  and 
with  one  tremendous  blow  shattered  the  glass  into  atoms,  and 
then  let  in  on  the  snakes.  The  crowd  "skeedaddled"  in  a  jiffy, 
and  the  showman  ran  in  and  shouted,  "What  in  the  thunder 


302  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

are  you  doing  ?"    And  the  old  man  shouted  back  as  lie  finished 
the  job,  "By  gosh,  I  always  kills  'em  wherever  I  finds  'em." 

It  is  funny  to  me  to  see  the  Republican  leaders  attempting 
to  play  the  same  old  game,  to  capture  the  State  from  Democracy. 

It  is  an  unparalleled  exhibition  of  unblushing  gall,  but  when 
the  campaign  is  over  I  think  they  will  be  in  the  condition  of 
the  old  darkey  who  boarded  the  train  one  cold,  drizzly  day.  The 
good  warm  car  made  him  drowsy  and  his  head  reclined  on  the 
back  of  the  seat  and  he  slept  like  a  log,  with  his  mouth  wide 
open  and  his  big  red  tongue  lolling  full  on  the  view.  A  drum- 
mer passing  through  observed  it,  and  he  reached  into  his  vest 
pocket  and  pulled  out  a  ten-grain  capsule  of  quinine  and 
emptied  in  on  the  old  man's  tongue.  Uncle  Ephraim  awoke  and 
began  to  work  his  lips  in  anguish,  and  when  the  conductor  came 
through  the  car  taking  up  the  tickets,  the  old  man  asked  in  a 
frightened  tone,  "Boss,  is  you  got  a  doctor  on  dis  train?"  "I 
don't  know;  are  you  sick?"  "Yes,  suh,  I's  pow'ful  sick.'* 
"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  "Well,  suh,  from  the  way  it 
tastes,  my  gall's  busted." 

We  are  the  champion  snake-killers  and  gall-busters  of  the 
world,  and  they  can't  keep  us  down,  boys;  they  can't  keep  us 
down. 

We  are  like  the  old  mule  that  fell  into  the  well.  They 
couldn't  get  him  out,  and  concluded  they  would  cover  him  up 
and  fill  up  the  well,  but  every  time  they  dumped  in  a  load  of 
dirt,  the  old  mule  climbed  up  on  it,  and  he  climbed  and  he 
climbed  until  he  finally  walked  out  of  the  well  in  triumph  and 
went  browsing  around  in  the  green  pastures  and  by  the  still 
waters. 

But  here  I  am  splashing  and  diving  again  in  the  old  swim- 
ming hole  of  humor,  which  has  cost  me  so  many  sound  "thrash- 
ings" with  the  dogwood  sprout  of  criticism. 

I  couldn't  keep  out  of  the  old  mill  pond  when  I  was  a  boy ; 
I  can't  keep  out  of  it  now.  They  say  I  am  not  serious  enough 
to  sit  in  the  councils  of  the  ISTation,  and  that  there  is  not  dignity 
enough  in  my  bearing.  That  may  be  true,  but  sometimes  I  have 
lucid  intervals,  and  all  the  time  I  am  true  to  the  people.  The 
leopard  cannot  change  his  spots,  neither  can  I  repress  that 
fountain  of  good  cheer  that  bubbles  in  my  heart  like  a  spring. 


ADDRESSES  3O3 

It  has  always  been  my  supreme  delight  to  conjure  smiles 
to  the  lips  of  trouble,  and  the  sweetest  music  that  ever  fell  on 
my  ears  is  the  melody  of  laughter. 

I  have  my  own  philosophy  on  that  subject.  I  do  not  believe 
tliat  a  frowning  brow  is  always  the  badge  of  a  statesman ;  I  do 
not  believe  that  a  heart  of  ice  is  a  token  of  love  and  devotion 
to  our  country. 

But  let  that  all  pass,  and  let  us  splash  and  dive  for  a  little 
while  into  weightier  matters,  Avhich  involve  the  safety  of  the 
Republic  and  the  perpetuity  of  its  institutions.  You  have  a 
right  to  know  what  I  have  been  doing. 

You  look  to  me  like  an  audience  of  interrogation  points. 
You  want  to  know  what  are  the  fruits  of  my  five  years'  service 
in  the  Senate,  but  I  have  no  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver 
to  hold  up  to  your  admiring  gaze. 

My  fruit  is  not  entirely  ripe  yet  and  I  fear  if  I  give  you 
too  much  of  it  today  it  might  leave  you  in  the  condition  of  the 
members  of  a  city  church  choir  who  indulged  in  half  green 
persimmons  just  before  services,  and  they  drew  up  their  mouths 
and  puckered  their  lips  till  they  had  to  whistle  the  doxology. 

I  must  beg  for  time  for  my  persimmons  to  ripen.  The 
frost  of  a  Republican  majority  has  fallen  on  them,  and  they 
will  not  be  sweet  and  luscious  until  the  sunlight  of  a  victorious 
Democracy  shines  into  the  Senate  chamber. 

AVhile  we  are  battling  to  win  a  National  Victory,  let  us  not 
forget  that  Tennessee  must  be  rescued  from  the  Republicans. 
The  Democratic  party  has  done  too  much  for  Tennessee  for  us 
to  surrender  her  to  her  enemies  now.  Out  of  the  chaos  and 
tears  of  reconstruction  Democracy  has  lifted  us. 

Time  has  smoothed  down  to  a  common  level  the  mounds 
that  once  swelled  above  the  breasts  of  fallen  heroes,  and  from 
the  rich  red  rain  that  poured  from  their  veins  has  covered 
the  cruel  gashes  of  fraternal  strife  with  multitudinous  mantles 
of  grass  and  leaf,  and  tree  and  flower ;  where  ignorance  groped 
and  poverty  sat  in  mourning,  the  blessed  light  of  education  is 
breaking  upon  the  hills  and  filtering  through  the  forests,  and 
falling  like  the  sunshine  into  the  humblest  homes,  and  coimtless 
schoolhouses  filled  with  happy  children  are  the  babbling  testi- 
monials of  Democratic  rule  in  Tennessee. 


304  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

Villages  have  budded  into  towns,  and  towns  have  blos- 
somed into  cities;  and  huge  mountains  that  once  leaned,  silent 
and  solemn,  like  ragged  paupers  against  the  skies,  now  chuckle 
with  the  miner's  pick  and  explode  with  the  grim  laughter  of 
dynamite  as  they  open  their  hearts  and  give  up  their  treasures. 

Where  sullen  armies  once  pitched  their  tents,  a  thousand 
fields  are  now  tented  with  shocks  of  grain,  and  where  the  minnie 
ball  whistled  its  tune  of  death  in  the  air,  the  quail  now  whistles 
"Bob  White"  to  his  mate  in  the  shade  of  the  old  apple  tree. 


LOVE  LETTERS 


LOVE  LETTERS 


TO  UNCLE  SAM. 

"Kobin's  Eoost/'  Johnson  City,  Tenn., 

January  1,  1899. 
Dear  Uncle  Sam: 

As  one  of  your  numerous  nephews,  I  am  exceedingly  anxious 
for  your  welfare.  You  have  always  been  represented  to  me 
as  a  very  tall  and  lean  old  star-spangled  gentleman,  with  a 
fur  plug  hat  and  chin  whiskers.  I  very  much  fear  that  you 
are  going  too  far  away  from  home  on  your  gunning  expedi- 
tions. It  is  true  the  game  you  are  after  is  tempting,  and  nobody 
doubts  your  ability  to  bag  it;  but  I  implore  you,  old  man,  to 
look  to  your  health  and  happiness.  You  are  not  as  young  as 
you  were  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  you  have  never  left  home 
for  sport  before.  The  meat  under  Cuba's  wing  may  be  sweet, 
and  no  doubt  the  drumstick  of  Porto  Rico  would  be  delicious ; 
at  any  rate,  you  have  them  in  your  grasp  and  seem  to  be  pre- 
paring for  the  feast,  with  the  Philippines  for  dessert ;  but  I  do 
not  really  believe  that  you  ought  to  indulge  in  Manilla  ice 
cream,  and  I  am  sure  that  Aguinaldo  pudding  will  sour  on  your 
stomach.  All  of  these  foreign  dishes  will  give  you  nightmare, 
as  sure  as  you  are  born.  Why  not  be  content  to  sit  down  to 
your  own  hog  and  hominy,  and  turnip  greens,  and  canvasbacks, 
and  beef,  and  venison,  and  'possum,  and  pumpkin  pie,  and 
political  punch  ? 

I  am  aw^are  that  it  is  always  the  ambition  of  a  lean  man 
to  expand,  and  I  am  persuaded  that  you  are  just  a  little  bit 
envious  of  John  Bull's  colonial  corpulency  and  British  pre- 
ponderosity.  No  doubt  you  are  now  dreaming  of  the  day  when 
your  luminous-striped  vest  will  encircle  your  rotund  stomach 
like  the  belts  of  Jupiter  and  the  rings  of  Saturn;  but  let  me 
remind  you  that  fat  men  snore  and  have  gout  and  sometimes 
keel  over  with  apoplexy. 


308  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

Uncle  Sam,  you  are  a  daisy.  Two  years  ago  you  were  for 
contraction  by  a  large  majority;  now  you  are  tearing  your 
shirt  for  expansion.  I  suppose  that  while  you  are  contracting 
and  expanding  you  will  take  a  notion  after  awhile  to  stretch 
yourself  to  your  full  length  on  the  western  hemisphere,  until 
the  mosquitoes  shall  roost  on  your  big  toe  at  Cape  Horn,  while 
icebergs  form  on  your  whiskers  in  Alaska.  It  may  be  all  right, 
and  you  have  about  seventy-five  millions  of  nephews  and  nieces 
who  are  for  you,  right  or  wrong ;  but  some  of  us  hope  that  you 
won't  get  too  big  for  your  breeches ;  or,  rather,  that  your  breeches 
won't  get  too  small  for  you.  We  don't  want  you  to  become 
too  gay,  and  we  are  opposed  to  your  attending  too  many  ban- 
quets, such  as  you  have  been  reveling  in  ever  since  last  April. 
We  think  the  jubilee  of  peace  is  far  better  for  your  liver  than 
the  banquet  of  war.  But  all  these  little  hints  are  prompted 
by  love  and  veneration  and  solicitude  for  your  good  name  and 
your  glory.  I  would  not  wound  your  feelings  for  a  box  of 
Havanas  or  a  hogshead  of  Honolulus ;  but  I  confess  with  blushes 
that  there  are  about  seventy  four  millions,  nine  hundred  and 
seventy-five  thousand  of  your  kinfolks  who  have  good  ground 
for  complaint.  We  see  the  stars  twinkling  and  the  eagles  flap- 
ping their  wings  on  the  shoulders  of  your  heroes ;  we  see  the  girls 
smothering  them  with  kisses,  and  we  all  sigh  for  a  few  smothers. 
Our  complaint  is  that  we  cannot  all  wear  stars  or  eagles,  and 
therefore  we  cannot  have  "equal  blessings  to  all,  with  exclusive 
privileges  to  none."  Not  long  ago  I  saw  the  city  of  Nashville 
open  her  arms  and  press  two  of  your  heroes  to  her  bosom.  One 
was  Captain  Maynard,  of  the  United  States  gunboat  Nashville, 
who  fired  the  first  gim  of  the  war  with  Spain;  the  other  was 
Lieutenant  Hobson,  who  set  an  example  of  daring  and  courage 
for  the  generations  to  follow.  If  you  could  have  seen  the 
laughing  and  shouting  bouquet  of  seven  thousand  little  school 
children  who  greeted  them  in  our  great  auditorium  at  high 
noon;  if  you  could  have  heard  them  sing  the  National  airs 
and  keep  time  with  waving  flags,  you  would  have  agreed  with 
me  that  there  is  nothing  left  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  except 
that  it  is  now  only  the  dividing  line  between  cold  bread  and  hot 
biscuits ;  if  you  could  have  heard  the  storm  of  applause  from  old 
and  young  which  greeted  them  in  the  evening,  you  would  have 


LOVE   LETTERS  3O9 

waved  your  old  bandanna  in  the  air  and  joined  in  the  glorious 
jubilee;  if  you  could  have  heard  the  explosions  of  the  rosy  bomb- 
shells that  burst  in  kisses  on  their  cheeks,  no  doubt  you  would 
have  rushed  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight.  If  you  could  have 
heard  our  speeches  of  welcome,  you  would  have  fainted  as 
dead  as  a  mackerel  from  exhaustion.  But  the  banquet  "in 
the  wee  sma'  hours"  capped  the  climax.  We  had  greeted  our 
noble  guests  with  compliments  and  speeches  and  the  clapping  of 
hands  through  the  day,  but  at  the  banquet  we  gave  them  welcome 
with  smoking  quails  and  pompanoes,  and  this,  that,  and  the 
other;  and  there  was  popping  of  corks,  and  effervescing  and 
sparkling,  and  a  good  time  in  the  old  town  that  night.  We 
bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  Captain  First  Shot  and  Lieutenant 
Merrimac,  and  went  to  bed  feeling  that  we  were  citizens  of  the 
greatest  country  in  the  world,  and  all  heroes. 

Good-by,  Uncle  Sam;  take  care  of  your  health  and  chin 
whiskers.  Remember  me  kindly  to  the  American  eagle,  give 
my  love  to  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and  may  we  all  live  long 
and  prosper.  Robert  L.  Taylor. 


TO  THE  POLITICIANS. 

"Robin's  Roost/'  Johnson  City,  Tenn., 

February  1,  1899. 
My  Dear,  Sweet  Old  Angels: 

With  tearful  eyes  and  breaking  heart  I  leave  your  shining 
ranks.  My  tears  are  tears  of  gladness;  my  heart  is  breaking 
with  joy. 

Somehow  or  other  we  have  never  flocked  together  in  the 
paradise  of  politics.  You  wanted  me  to  blow  your  trumpet, 
but  I  preferred  the  mellower  notes  and  softer  tones  of  the  old- 
time  fiddle  of  the  people.  I  am  aware  that  the  good,  old- 
fashioned  popular  airs  which  thrilled  the  hearts  of  our  fathers 
are  not  in  favor  now  with  your  angelic  Majesties.  Our  country 
is  keeping  step  to  the  modern  boom-de-ya  of  ring  politics,  and 
waltzing  to  the  earth-cracking  and  sky-rending  music  of  modem 
political  "Vogners."     Our  statesmanship  now  trips  the  light 


310  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

fantastic  toe  in  the  latter-day  gold-standard  "german"  and  the 
imperial  expansion  "skirt  dance,"  at  the  expense  of  the  people 
and  the  peril  of  the  Nation. 

Common  folks  cannot  understand  this  so-called  high-class 
music,  nor  the  figures  of  these  new-fangled  dances,  and,  there- 
fore, they  are  in  a  condition  which  is  beautifully  illustrated  by 
a  tale  I  used  to  hear  before  politics  snatched  me  baldheaded. 
At  an  old-time  country  dance,  the  fiddlers  resined  their  bows 
and  took  their  places  on  the  platform.  The  floor  manager  rose 
and  imperiously  shouted:  "Get  your  partners  for  a  cotillion! 
All  you  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  wear  shoes  and  stockings 
will  take  your  places  in  the  center  of  the  room;  all  you  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  wear  shoes  and  no  stockings  will  take  your 
places  immediately  behind  them ;  and  you  barefooted  crowd  must 
jig  it  around  in  the  corners."  You  dear  old  politicians  wear  the 
shoes  and  stockings,  while  we,  the  people,  are  the  barefooted 
crowd.  But  I  beg  that  you  will  believe  me  sincere  when  I  say 
that  I  am  contented  with  the  corners,  for  there  is  more  sincerity 
and  genuine  happiness  there  than  I  have  ever  found  in  the 
center.  Many  a  time  I  have  seen  a  hundred  and  eighty  pounds 
of  unadulterated  treachery  in  one  pair  of  shoes,  and  a  whole 
armful  of  slippered  and  skirted  insincerity  in  a  single  pair  of 
stockings.  I  have  swung  corners  with  ingratitude  and  hypocrisy 
until  I  whizzed  in  the  air  and  my  coat  tails  popped  like  a  whip 
cracker.  Who  has  not?  I  have  danced  in  the  same  set  with 
M.  "Boozard"  and  Signer  "Carioncrow."  So  has  every  man 
who  ever  entered  the  political  ballroom.  But  I  was  always  so 
awkward  and  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  continually  stepping  on 
somebody's  political  corns  and  ambitious  bunions;  and  there- 
fore I  was  in  the  midst  of  perpetual  "ouch,"  and  the  recipient 
of  innumerable  tender  compliments  and  affectionate  daggers; 
and  now, 


If  you  could  see  my  mortal  scars, 
The  fleshy  records  of  my  jars, 
You'd  think  I'd  spent  my  life  in  wars 
Where  whips,  fists,  clubs,  and  stones 
Wage  endless  strife  with  flesh  and  bones. 


LOVE   LETTERS  3II 

But  I  have  vanished  from  the  center  of  politics  to  the  warm 
corner  of  a  happy  home ;  and  I  find  rest  and  sympathy  here  un- 
der the  outstretched  wings  of  my  native  mountains.  Who 
could  not  find  rest  and  happiness  in  a  land  like  this  ?  "The 
foot  of  man  has  never  trod  the  sod  of  any  spot  on  earth  where 
purer  fountains  gem  the  hills,  and  brighter  streams,  falling 
from  loftier  heights,  wind  their  shining  ways  through  greener, 
sweeter,  lovelier  vales."  Heaven  never  smiled  on  landscapes 
more  beautiful,  and  the  eagles  never  soared  under  softer  skies 
than  those  which  bend  above  the  sun-painted  cliffs  and  peaceful, 
happy  valleys  of  my  own  East  Tennessee. 

To  the  jaded  politician  who  has  grovTi  weary  of  fishing 
for  votes  and  angling  for  suckers,  there  is  surcease  of  sorrow 
here  in  the  brawling  brooks  of  the  mountains,  where  the  genuine 
speckled  trout  plays  hide  and  seek  with  the  sunshine  in  the 
shoals,  or  sleeps  in  the  darkening  eddies,  under  the  fragrant 
bloom  of  the  overhanging  honeysuckles.  To  the  overworked 
public  servant  upon  whose  head  the  snows  that  never  melt  have 
too  soon  fallen,  these  bright,  leaping,  laughing,  dashing,  buoyant 
mountain  rivers  are  the  symbols  of  youth  and  the  synonyms  of 
happiness.  On  their  grassy  brinks  he  may  sit  and  listen  to  the 
singing  of  his  reel  and  the  swish  of  his  line,  and  watch  the 
game  black  bass  as  he  leaps  up  out  of  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
with  the  hook  in  his  mouth,  and  flashes  in  the  sunlight,  and  then 
darts  back  to  make  the  reel  sing  and  the  line  swish  again.  Or, 
if  he  wishes  a  diversity  of  sport  and  pleasure,  I  will  loan  him 
one  of  my  shotguns  and  a  pair  of  my  leggings,  and  we  will  leave 
the  trout  and  bass  in  the  brook  and  brimming  river  and  follow 
my  brace  of  beautiful  Llewellyn  bird  dogs,  "Fiddle"  and  "Bow," 
into  the  fields,  and  serenade  the  vanishing  coveys  with  chilled 
shot  and  smokeless  powder.  In  such  a  life  in  such  a  land 
there  is  no  snow  upon  the  heart ;  'tis  always  summer  there.  Do 
you  politicians  say  that  you  have  no  time  to  waste  in  such  un- 
profitable sports?  So  said  I  for  twenty  years;  but  I  have  dis- 
covered that  there  is  more  profit  in  it,  both  to  the  pocket  and  the 
soul,  than  in  the  phantom-fishing  and  shadow-chasing  sports  of 
politics.  There  is  no  meat  so  sweet  as  the  boneless  sides  of  the 
speckled  trout,  and  a  smoking  quail  on  toast  is  a  joy  forever; 
but  you  cannot  eat  the  political  sucker,  nor  can  you  digest  the 


312  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

game  jou  bag  in  politics.  It  is  true  that  the  science  of  govern- 
ment is  a  "wonderful  field  for  the  energies  of  the  brain.  There 
is  room  in  its  air  for  every  wing;  but  croaking  crows  fly  above 
the  mocking  birds,  and  pitiless  hawks  circle  to  dizzy  heights, 
only  to  swoop  down  and  strangle  the  song  of  the  linnet  or  bury 
his  talons  in  the  heart  of  the  dove.  It  hath  its  aAvful  altitudes 
of  glory,  but  merciless  condors  hover  there ;  and  he  who  reaches 
the  icy  summit  will  look  down  on  the  humbler  plane  of  life 
below,  and  wish  his  feet  had  never  wandered  from  its  warmer 
sunshine  and  sweeter  flowers.  I  am  now  basking  in  the  warmer 
sunshine  and  reveling  among  the  sweeter  flowers ;  and  if  politics 
shall  ever  stand  before  me  again  and  ask  what  it  can  do  for 
me,  I  will  say  to  it  what  Diogones  said  to  Alexander  the  Great : 
"Please  get  out  of  my  sunshine." 

O,  give  the  laurels  to  heroes,  the  glory  to  the  great, 
Palaces  and  power  to  the  heads  of  State ; 
But  give  me  love  and  laughter — my  children  round  my  knee, 
In  my  happy  cottage,     O,  that's  the  life  for  me ! 

RoBT.  L.  Tayloe. 


TO  THE  BOYS. 

"Robin's  Roost/'  Johnson  City^  Tenn., 

February  6,  1899. 
My  Dear  Chums: 

The  happiest  period  of  human  life  is  youth;  and  the  hap- 
piest specimen  of  youth  is  a  big,  healthy,  awkward,  watery- 
jointed,  frollicking  boy,  with  his  heart  full  of  dreams,  and  his 
head  full  of  schemes,  and  his  pockets  full  of  apples  and  things. 
He  is  a  bouncing  laugh  and  a  bounding  yell.  He  is  the  beloved 
bandit  of  every  mother's  heart  and  the  delightful  outlaw  of  every 
old  daddy's  home. 

What  cares  he  for  painted  walls,  and  garnished  rooms,  and 
velvet  rugs,  and  pictured  tapestries,  and  pastelles,  and  water 
colors,  and  crayons  in  frames  of  gilt  and  gold?  What  cares 
he  for  frescoed  halls,  and  polished  floors,  and  stairways  of 
mahogany?     What  cares  he  for  all  the  chandeliers  that  shine, 


LOVE   LETTERS  313 

SO  he  has  liberty  to  romp  on  the  green  carpets  of  the  meadows 
and  hills,  under  heaven's  flaming  chandelier,  and  a  place  to  sleep 
in  the  lumber  room,  among  the  cobwebs  and  old,  dusty  trunks, 
where  his  rest  is  as  sweet  as  though  he  were  pillowed  on  the 
couch  of  a  king,  with  silken  curtains  drawn  about  him  ?  What 
cares  he  for  champagne  and  sherry,  if  he  can  lie  down  and  drink 
from  the  bubbling  spring,  or  hear  the  corks  of  laughter  pop,  and 
listen  to  the  wild  melodies  of  nature's  songs  that  sparkle  in  his 
soul?  What  cares  he  for  "consomme,"  so  he  can  get  plenty 
of  soup?  What  cares  he  for  "sirloin,"  so  he  has  beef  to  eat? 
What  cares  he  for  "roast  prairie  chicken,"  so  he  gets  chicken  ? 
W^hat  cares  he  for  all  the  "a  la's"  and  "de  la's"  and  "au  juses" 
of  the  up-to-date  menu  ?  They  are  "vanity  and  vexation  of 
spirit"  to  him,  in  comparison  with  a  good  old-fashioned,  well- 
cooked,  big-dish  home  dinner,  steaming  like  an  engine,  and 
tempting  his  appetite  with  the  mingling  aromas  of  boiled  cab- 
bage and  stewed  turnips,  and  mashed  potatoes,  and  smoking 
biscuit,  and  com  dodgers  dodging  behind  the  golden  battlements 
of  fresh  country  butter,  with  big  white  pitchers  sweating  on  the 
outside  of  cold  buttermilk,  and  pumpkin  pies  laughing  all  over 
the  table? 

If  I  wish  to  find  a  sure  enough  boy,  I  do  not  search  for  him 
in  the  parlor,  but  in  the  pantry.  I  do  not  expect  to  find  him  in 
the  drawing-room,  but  in  the  dining-room.  He  does  not  lurk 
in  the  library,  but  in  the  back  yard  with  his  game  chickens 
and  white  rabbits  and  Billygoats,  or  in  the  fields,  shouting  and 
shooting  in  the  glorious  company  of  his  faithful  dogs.  The 
reason  is  that  a  boy  loves  his  stomach  better  than  poems  and 
pictures;  he  loves  nature  better  than  art.  The  truth  is,  he  is 
nature's  child;  and  the  child  loves  to  play  close  to  the  warm, 
throbbing  heart  of  his  mother. 

Nature  furnishes  him  mud  puddles  to  wade  in,  and  swim- 
ming holes  to  swim  in,  and  stones  to  throw,  and  birds  to  throw 
at,  and  hills  to  coast  on,  and  streams  to  fish  in,  and  sunshine  to 
warm  in,  and  shade  to  cool  in,  and  fruits  and  berries  of  every 
kind  to  eat,  and  "Molly  Cottontails"  to  hunt,  and  a  thousand 
other  joys  which  bless  his  life. 

But  soon  the  hour  comes  when  nature  must  wean  her  boy, 
and  lead  him  out  of  her  nursery  into  the  sweet  gardens  of  fancy 

(20) 


314  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

and  tlie  green  fields  of  poetry,  which  lie  on  the  frontier  of  cold 
facts — the  border  land  of  reality.  To  prepare  him  for  his  future 
career,  she  first  touches  his  vocal  cords  and  changes  his  voice 
from  the  tone  of  the  fife  to  the  mellifluous  notes  of  a  bass  viol, 
and  puts  a  little  hair  on  his  upper  lip,  and  whispers  one  word 
in  his  heart,  which,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  changes  his 
dreams  and  his  destiny.  That  word  is  "love."  What  a  world 
of  beauty  it  unfolds  to  him !  And  how  sudden  is  his  transition 
from  the  mud  puddle  to  the  bath  tub ;  from  the  "Molly  Cotton- 
tail" to  the  "Molly  Curly-head;"  from  frolics  in  the  haymow 
to  meditation  among  the  buttercups  and  clover  blossoms;  from 
yells  to  love  songs ;  from  unrestrained  laughter  to  sickly  smiles ; 
from  text-books  to  novels;  from  novels  to  the  opera;  from  the 
opera  to  strolls  in  the  moonlight;  and  from  the  moonlight  to 
lamplight  in  the  parlor,  where  he  sits  behind  closed  doors  in 
executive  session,  and  holds  her  hand  for  an  hour  and  never 
says  a  word ! 

The  world  is  a  bouquet  of  flowers  to  the  boy  whose  heart 
is  full  of  love. 

When  I  was  a  gay  country  boy  in  my  jeans  and  my  teens, 
I  was  as  green  as  the  green,  green  grass,  and  innocent  as  Mary's 
little  lamb.  I  had  two  cronies  who  were  equally  as  green  as 
I ;  and  we  had  a  good  right  to  be  green.  The  fields  in  which 
we  played  together  were  green,  the  trees  that  shaded  us  were 
green,  the  woodlands  around  us  were  green,  and  we  were  all  very 
fond  of  turnip  greens.  But  we  had  seen  the  sunshine  love  the 
green  fields  into  harvests  of  gold,  aad  kiss  the  green  mountains 
until  they  turned  purple  w'ith  joy  and  pouted  their  crimson 
lips  to  be  kissed  again ;  and  in  our  jeans,  and  amid  our  greens, 
we  sighed  for  love  and  kisses. 

The  sweethearts  of  our  childhood,  like  little  birds,  had  long 
since  flown  from  the  mountain  to  live  in  a  neighboring  city,  and 
the  report  came  to  us  like  an  echo  from  paradise  that  they  still 
remembered  us,  and  loved  us,  and  washed  that  we  might  come. 
So,  with  butternut  suits,  and  squeaking  boots,  and  our  little 
wool  hats  with  brims  pushed  up  in  front,  we  boarded  the  cars ; 
and  soon  we  were  primping,  and  blacking,  and  brushing,  and 
perspiring  in  the  hotel,  within  five  squares  of  the  flounced  and 
powdered  enemy.     At  length  an  immense  bull's  eye  watch  in 


LOVE  LETTERS  3I5 

the  trembling  hands  of  one  of  my  comrades  announced  that 
the  hour  for  action  had  arrived,  and  we  reconnoitered  the 
crowded  streets,  "wondering,  fearing,  donbting,  dreaming 
dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  before."  Far  out  in  the 
country  from  whence  we  had  come  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  a  doorbell,  and  suddenly  there  was  a  tapping,  as  of  some 
one  loudly  rapping,  rapping  hard  upon  the  door;  and  "the 
silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling"  of  our  sweethearts'  skirts  within 
"thrilled  us,  filled  us  with  fantastic  terrors"  we  had  never  felt 
before.  Our  hearts  leaped  to  our  throats  when  the  heavy-paneled 
oak  door  swimg  back  on  noiseless  hinges,  and  the  "century 
reeled"  w^hen  we  paused  in  the  hall  under  the  brilliant  chande- 
lier, where  we  put  into  execution  our  studied  and  practiced 
bows.  Then  there  was  a  rush  for  three  chairs  in  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  parlor,  into  which  we  dropped  with  a  thud,  blush- 
ing and  perspiring  in  front  of  three  sofas  in  the  opposite 
corner,  which  were  half  occupied  by  three  little  slippered  and 
skirted  dreams  of  beauty  who  beckoned  and  persuaded  and 
coaxed  us  to  come  across ;  but  we  answered  the  challenge  with 
more  blushes  and  more  grins  and  perspiration.  The  cause  of  our 
dreadful  embarrassment  was  our  appalling  discovery  that  our 
sweethearts  had  evolved  into  cultured  and  refined  young  society 
ladies,  with  not  a  single  trace  of  the  country  girls  we  used  to 
know  left,  either  in  dress,  conversation  or  appearance ;  while 
we  had  grown  up  green  and  unsophisticated,  and,  if  possible, 
more  awkward  than  ever.  In  the  midst  of  our  struggle  to  re- 
gain our  equilibrium  the  door  opened  again,  and  in  stepped 
three  elegantly  dressed  young  gentlemen,  who  were  evidently 
the  beaux  of  our  erstwhile  sweethearts.  The  city  swell  always 
has  supreme  eontemj)t  for  a  country  boy,  especially  in  the  game 
of  love.  These  young  men  laughed  in  our  faces  when  we  again 
put  into  execution  our  studied  and  practiced  bows,  and  they 
gracefully  sat  do^vn  by  the  girls  and  began  to  pour  out  great 
sluices  of  nonsense.  They  were  kind  enough,  however,  to  fire 
a  few  questions  at  us,  to  which  we  replied  in  monosyllables,  and 
with  more  perspiration,  which  ran  do"wn  our  cheeks  like  the 
rain,  until  the  paper  collar  of  one  of  my  cronies  came  in  two ; 
and  he  instantly  sprang  to  his  feet  and  broke  for  the  door,  closely 
followed  by  his  two  demoralized  and  completely  routed  com- 


3l6  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

rades;  and  amid  the  protestations  and  appeals  of  the  young 
ladies  to  remain  longer,  we  made  a  rush  for  the  street  and 
vanished  forevermore. 

The  years  rolled  on,  and  we  all  found  congenial  spirits  closer 
home,  who  made  our  hearts  Edens  and  our  firesides  paradise. 

One  of  my  cronies  became  a  splendid  business  man  and 
private  secretary  to  the  Governor  of  a  great  State;  the  other 
became  a  judge ;  while  the  city  swells  who  laughed  in  the  faces 
of  the  innocent  country  lads  were  long  since  lost  in  the  shuffle, 
and  have  never  been  heard  of  among  those  who  have  succeeded 
in  the  world. 

I  would  not  say  aught  to  discourage  the  boys  who  dwell  in 
the  cities  and  towns,  for  they  have  ten  thousand  advantages 
which  a  country  boy  never  dreams  of.  The  cities  and  towns 
are  the  emporiums  of  art  and  science,  and  the  great  schools  of 
polytechnics  and  mechanical  training;  but  the  country  is  the 
nursery  of  poets  and  statesmen.  I  have  seen  something  of  life 
in  both,  and  my  observation  has  been  that  the  country  is  the 
place  to  raise  a  boy,  where  the  green  hills  and  beautiful  land- 
scapes broaden  his  views,  and  where  the  great  mountains  point 
upward  toward  God. 

Yours  truly, 

ROBEET  L.  TaYLOE. 


TO  THE  GIRLS. 

"Robin's  Roost/^  Johnson  City^  Tenn.^ 

March  1,  1899. 
My  Dear  Little  Sweethearts: 

The  prettiest  thing  I  ever  saw  wore  dresses;  the  sweetest 
thing  I  ever  surveyed  had  a  mouth  like  a  crimson  bow,  and  two 
bright  eyes  that  looked  like  two  little  heavens  with  angels  in 
'em;  and  the  happiest  thing  I  ever  beheld  wore  slippers  and 
tripped  like  a  fairy  on  the  horizon  of  life's  blissful  morning. 
When  I  add  the  dress,  and  mouth,  and  eyes,  and  slippers  all 
together,  I  have  the  sum  of  beauty,  sweetness,  brightness  and 
happiness ;  and  that  is  you.    I  never  see  you  that  I  do  not  think 


LOVE   LETTERS  317 

of  rosebuds,  and  music,  and  love;  and  why  should  I  not  think 
of  them?  Rosebuds  are  the  prophecies  of  full-blown  beauty, 
music  is  the  incense  of  the  soul,  and  love  is  the  soul  itself. 

In  every  human  breast  there  is  a  little  throbbing  world, 
ruddy  as  the  planet  Mars,  and  far  more  wonderful.  It  hath 
but  one  continent,  upon  whose  purple  shores  the  crimson  tides 
of  life  forever  ebb  and  flow,  measuring  off  the  circling  years 
of  time.  We  call  this  little  world  the  human  heart.  It  is 
the  paradise  of  love.  Its  ruby  gates  are  guarded  by  the  sera- 
phim of  virtue  and  truth ;  and  in  the  rapturous  hours  of  girl- 
hood no  wings  ever  cleave  its  crystal  air  but  angel  wings ;  within 
its  blissful  bowers  no  voices  are  ever  heard  but  the  voices  of 
happiness.  The  heart  of  an  innocent  girl  is  a  little  palpitating 
world  of  mirth  and  merriment,  untainted  by  guile,  unclouded 
by  sin.  It  hath  its  fragrant  rose  brakes,  where  beautiful  dreams 
wake  and  heave  the  bosom  with  joy ;  it  hath  its  bubbling  springs 
of  laughter  and  its  rippling  rivers  of  song ;  and  here  love  trans- 
forms itself  into  a  little  winged  god,  with  shining  quiver  and 
silver  bow,  and  flies  away  to  the  heaven  of  the  eyes,  from  whose 
fields  of  light  he  finds  wanton  sport  in  shooting  poisoned  arrows 
at  all  the  hearts  that  chance  to  come  within  his  range. 

Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  how  you  may  know  when  a  boy 
has  been  hit  with  one  of  Cupid's  arrows?  He  begins  to  shave 
his  pimpled  face,  and  make  a  desperate  effort  to  sprout  a  mus- 
tache; he  begins  to  wear  collars  bigger  than  his  shirt  and  a 
necktie  like  a  morning-glory;  he  has  his  trousers  creased  every 
day,  and  his  patent  leathers  polished ;  he  has  a  dreamy  look,  and 
blushes  whether  he  will  or  no ;  he  feels  like  a  culprit,  and  dare 
not  look  you  straight  in  the  eyes,  lest  you  discover  his  secret 
thought ;  he  cannot  refrain  from  sending  boxes  of  caramels,  and 
French  candies,  and  fruits  in  season.  The  effect  of  tne  amorous 
wound  is  blood  poison,  producing  temporary  insanity,  followed 
by  softening  of  the  brain. 

The  young  merchant  and  his  clerks  let  business  languish 
while  they  play  the  game  of  hearts;  the  young  law^-ers  turn 
away  from  text-book^  to  file  their  first  bills  in  the  chancery  of 
love,  only  to  be  demurred  out  of  court;  the  young  doctor  cures 
his  patients  with  neglect,  while  he  prescribes  affectionate  elixirs 
to  his  darling  "Dul-ci-ne-a  del  Toboso;"  the  town  swell  nicks 


3l8  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

his  horse's  tail  and  buys  a  new  buggy,  and  when  he  has  tucked 
his  hallucination  close  by  his  side  under  the  silver  spray  of  his 
new  lap  robe,  there  is  a  ripple  of  laughter,  a  crack  of  the  whip, 
and  instantly  a  silk  shirt  waist  and  a  cutaway  coat  "hit  the 
dim  and  shadowy  distance  like  Nancy  Hanks." 

But  it  is  the  law  of  God  that  through  the  sacred  portals 
of  a  true  girl's  heart  only  one  spirit  can  pass  at  a  time,  to  mate 
with  her  spirit  in  the  Eden  of  love;  and  it  is  for  her,  and  her 
alone,  to  say:  "Come  in,  sweet  angel;  come  in."  If  the  spirit 
who  enters  is  pure  and  noble  and  good  and  true  and  con- 
genial with  her  ideals,  and  generous  to  her  whims,  then  there 
will  be 

Two   souls   with   but   a   single  thought, 
Two  hearts  that  beat  as  one ; 

and  no  matter  how  dark  are  the  clouds  of  sorrow  that  lower,  no 
matter  how  thick  are  the  troubles  of  life  that  gather,  the  roses 
of  love  will  bloom  on  and  the  fountains  of  happiness  will  flow  to 
the  grave.  But — alas ! — too  often  the  disguised  spirit  of  a  brute 
is  admitted,  and  then  the  heart  is  Eden  blighted;  it  is  love's 
paradise  lost. 

Did  you  never  see  a  fair  young  girl  wed  a  hog  and  tenderly 
pat  him  on  the  jowl,  and  did  you  never  hear  her  call  him 
"Darling  ?"  I  have ;  and  she  wasn't  my  wife,  either.  Did  you 
never  read  in  Shakespeare's  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  how 
the  deluded  Titania  wove  garlands  of  flowers  for  the  brow  of  an 
ass  ?    I  have  seen  it  done  many  a  time  in  actual  life. 

It  is  common  for  girls  to  link  their  precious  lives  with  good 
looks  and  good  clothes,  rather  than  with  heart  and  brains. 

I  drop  these  little  hints  in  order  to  warn  our  girls  who  have 
not  vet  embarked  in  the  heart  business  to  first  know  the  truth 
before  they  admit  the  spirit:  for  it  is  a  sad  spectacle  to  see  a 
woman's  heart  become  a  pigpen,  or  a  mule  stall,  or  the  plaything 
of  an  idiot.  There  is  only  one  sadder  scene  in  this  world,  and 
that  is  where  a  noble  young  man  with  splendid  possibilities 
wakes  up  and  finds  himself  the  husband  of  a  silly  girl  without 
any  heart  at  all,  and  has  his  pinions  clipped  by  a  sloven  or  a 
scolding  wife.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  the  "new" 
woman  in  these  latter  days.     The  "old"  woman  is  good  enough 


LOVE   LETTERS  3 19 

for  me ;  but  it  matters  not  whether  she  is  old  or  new,  if  the  little 
purple  planet  in  her  bosom  is  all  right  and  its  gates  are  well 
guarded. 

If  a  woman  has  thoughts,  let  them  fly;  there  is  room 
enough  in  the  intellectual  air  for  every  wing.  If  she  can  ^vrite, 
let  her  have  the  ink  bottle ;  give  her  a  pen  and  foolscap  "a-plen- 
ty." If  she  must  make  a  living  by  her  o^vn  endeavors,  either  of 
body  or  mind,  let  her  have  the  largest  liberty,  and  let  every  man 
take  off  his  hat  to  her ;  but,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  girls,  keep  out 
of  politics ;  and,  above  all  things,  if  you  have  a  home,  make  it 
bright  and  beautiful.  Let  no  pleasure  come  between  you  and 
its  hearthstone ;  let  no  ambition  lure  you  from  its  door ;  let  it  be 
the  sun,  around  which  two  hearts,  at  least,  shall  wheel  in  perfect 
peace  and  harmony,  blossoming  in  its  light,  and  making  it  a 
complete  planetary  system  of  happiness  in  the  universe  of 
love. 

Go  slow,  my  dears,  and  take  the  advice  of  your  mothers. 
Be  sure  to  cultivate  the  traits  of  character  which  all  true  men 
adore.  Modesty  stands  first ;  gentleness  next ;  thoughtfulness  for 
the  comfort  and  pleasure  of  others,  next;  kindness,  next;  and 
•so  on  down  the  line.  If  you  get  a  chance,  study  art  and  music ; 
and  while  you  sweep  the  piano  keys,  don't  forget  to  learn  how 
to  sweep  with  the  broom ;  while  you  paint  pictures,  don't  forget 
to  learn  to  make  pies.  Know  ye  that  the  road  to  a  man's  heart 
is  through  his  stomach,  and  the  path  to  his  soul  leads  through 
his  eyes.  If  you  would  reach  both,  you  must  have  tidy  rooms 
and  an  inviting  table.  If  you  want  to  be  loved  (and  you  do), 
be  lovable.  It  won't  do  to  be  ''perfectly  lovely"  one  day,  and 
perfectly  hateful  the  next.  There  is  nothing  so  beautiful  as  an 
even  temper,  provided  it  is  a  good  temper.  One  good,  sweet, 
Christian  woman  in  a  neighborhood  is  worth  more  to  that  com- 
munity than  fifty-two  sennons,  for  she  is  a  living  sermon  the 
year  round. 

The  world  cannot  do  without  you,  girls ;  but  before  it  claims 
you,  let  me  whisper  a  word  in  your  ears.  Have  all  the  fun  you 
can.  Giggle  and  laugh  as  much  as  you  please.  Dance,  and 
skip,  and  romp,  and  hop  until  your  heart  goes  "flippity  flop," 
and  the  blood  eddies  in  your  cheeks  like  the  roses  that  bloom  in 
the  spring  tra  la.    Extract  every  drop  of  sweetness  out  of  every 


320  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

passing  hour.  Sleep  and  dream,  and  wake  and  dream  again. 
Be  happy  now,  for  the  clouds  of  sorrow  will  lower  some  day, 
and  some  day  the  troubles  of  real  life  will  come. 

Yours  truly, 

Robert  L.  Taylor. 


TO  THE  BACHELOR. 

"Robin's  Roost/'  Johnson  City,  Tenn., 

March  15,  1899. 
My  Dear  Old  Solitary: 

Who  mends  your  socks  ?  Do  you  sew  on  your  own  buttons  ? 
How  long  does  it  take  you  to  thread  the  needle?  Why  don't 
you  brush  the  cobwebs  out  of  your  soul,  and  straighten  up,  and 
get  a  good  wife  to  do  all  of  these  things  for  you  ?  What  pleasure 
do  you  find  in  playing  the  game  of  solitaire?  Hearts  are 
trumps,  and  you  cannot  play  a  happy  game  in  this  world  without 
a  partner.  It  is  not  good  that  man  should  live  alone.  The  world 
owes  you  a  rib,  and  you  ought  to  have  your  old  ribs  cracked 
if  you  don't  collect  the  debt. 

Why  don't  you  rig  up  your  matrimonial  tackle,  old  boy,  and 
go  angling  for  a  "frau?"  Your  old  pantaloons  look  mighty 
lonesome  hanging  there  in  that  dusty  wardrobe  without  some 
calico  to  keep  them  company.  Your  room  is  a  poor  paradise 
without  a  fair  Eve  to  adorn  it.  I  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
you;  you  are  afraid  of  grocery  bills,  and  dry  goods  bills,  and 
doctor  bills,  and  curtain  lectures,  and  the  overthrow  of  your 
independence  and  freedom  of  speech,  or  else  you  are  afraid  to 
"pop  the  question,"  and  thus  lose  many  a  golden  opportunity  by 
simply  looking  at  her  and  grinning  like  a  basketful  of  'possum 
heads.  Perhaps  you  have  "popped  the  question"  and  got  "No" 
for  an  answer,  but  remember  that  "there  are  as  good  fish  in  the 
sea  as  were  ever  caught,"  and  remember  that  she  is  somewhere 
in  this  wide,  wide  world  "waiting  for  thee,  darling." 

Comb  the  feathers  out  of  your  whiskers,  and  put  a  little 
bear's  oil  on  your  hair,  if  you  have  any  hair,  and  spruce  up. 
Don't  expect  her  to  court  you,  but  do  the  courting  yourself. 


LOVE   LETTERS  321 

Press  your  suit  gradually ;  and  when  jou  see  she  is  determined 
to  "kick,"  "kick"  first,  for  then  is  the  time  above  all  other  times 
to  show  jour  independence.  A  true  woman  loves  an  independent 
man  next  to  money. 

Are  you  accumulating  a  fortune?  If  so,  for  whom?  Did 
you  never  hear  "Private"  John  Allen's  story  of  the  division  of 
an  old  bachelor's  estate  ?  When  they  were  dividing  it  out  among 
his  kinsfolk,  one  disgruntled  relative  felt  that  he  hadn't  received 
his  just  proportion,  and  complainingly  said,  "I  sometimes  wish 
the  old  man  hadn't  died." 

If  you  are  poor,  you  need  a  good  woman  to  help  you  get 
rich;  if  you  are  rich,  you  need  a  good  woman  to  help  you  get 
poor.     In  either  case  she  is  a  success. 

For  a  man  to  pass  through  the  world  without  a  helpmeet 
is  a  strange  philosophy  to  me;  and  yet  I  have  seen  men  with 
as  noble  hearts  as  ever  throbbed,  full  of  splendid  sentiment,  and 
in  love  with  the  beautiful,  live  out  their  days  in  single  wretched- 
ness. 

Bacherlordom  is  a  habit;  the  longer  indulged  in,  the  harder 
to  break,  until  its  victim  is  so  infatuated  with  it  that  it  seems 
impossible  to  quit.  He  becomes  "sot"  in  his  ways,  and  all  the 
frills,  and  bangs,  and  bustles,  and  gaudy  shirt  waists,  and 
flowered  and  feathered  hats  Avhich  the  milliner's  art  can  fashion, 
and  all  the  bewitching  glances  and  persuasive  smiles  which 
beauty  can  bestow  move  him  not ;  neither  do  they  unmove  him. 

One  of  the  attendant  misfortunes  of  a  bachelor  is  absent- 
mindedness.  I  once  heard  of  an  absentminded  bachelor  who 
bought  a  pair  of  new  gloves,  and  went  home  with  them  and 
astonished  his  nephews  and  nieces  by  throwing  the  gloves  in  the> 
fire  and  spitting  on  the  bed.  Of  course  he  intended  to  spit 
in  the  fire  and  throw  his  gloves  on  the  bed.  The  best  way  to 
cure  absent-mindedness  is  to  get  a  live,  wide-awake,  talking 
wife,  whose  tongue  will  be  a  constant  reminder  to  you,  and  soon 
teach  you  to  think  the  right  way. 

If  all  men  should  foUow  your  plan  of  life,  what  would 
become  of  society  and  civilization  ?  All  the  homes  that  now 
glow  with  the  light  of  love  and  ring  with  the  laughter  and  song 
of  children  would  soon  be  transformed  into  the  silent  and  sour 
domiciles  of  old  maids  and  just  such  old  things  as  you.     I  do 


322  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

not  mean  to  speak  harsHy  or  to  wound  your  feelings,  but  only  to 
show  you  the  error  of  your  way. 

If  you  would  enjoy  life,  you  must  have  a  happy  home ;  and 
if  you  would  have  a  happy  home,  it  must  glow  with  happy 
smiles  and  ring  with  happy  voices ;  and  happy  hands  must  keep 
it  neat  and  clean  and  plant  flowers  at  the  door. 

"Home  is  not  merely  four  square  walls, 

Though  with  pictures  hung  and  gilded; 
Home  is  where  affection  calls, 

Filled  with  shrines  the  heart  hath  builded. 
Home — go  watch  the  faithful  dove 

Sailing  through  the  heaven  above  us. 
Home  is  where  there's  one  to  love ; 

Home  is  where  there's  one  to  love  us;" 

I  have  no  doubt  you  will  turn  up  your  nose  and  charge  me 
with  sentimentality.  I  plead  guilty  to  the  soft  impeachment. 
I  am  sentimental,  and  I  have  but  little  respect  for  the  man  who 
is  not.  It  is  the  soul  of  religion  and  patriotism ;  it  is  the  life- 
blood  of  all  good  society ;  it  is  the  essence  of  love.  Every  soul 
that  ever  found  its  way  from  earth  to  heaven  was  wafted  there 
on  the  wings  of  sentiment;  every  brave  spirit  who  ever  faced 
death  for  his  country  was  led  by  sentiment  to  the  battle  field; 
every  beautiful  picture  is  a  sentiment  reflected  from  the  heart 
on  the  canvas ;  and  every  creation  of  the  sculptor's  chisel  is  the 
silent  image  of  a  sentiment.  What  power  is  it  which  leads  the 
bride  and  groom  to  the  altar  to  seal  their  vows  ?  It  is  the  pure 
sentiment  of  love.  What  is  it  which  makes  home  and  life  and 
the  world  beautiful  ?  It  is  sentiment.  A\'Tiat  are  the  flowers 
but  the  fragrant  sentiments  of  God  ?  What  are  the  brawling 
brooks  and  rippling  rivers  but  the  laughter  and  song  of  the 
waters?     What  are  laughter  and  song  but  sentiment? 

My  wifeless  friend,  somewhere  in  thy  heart  there  is  an 
angel  sentiment  sleeping.  I  appeal  to  you,  in  the  name  of  re- 
ligion, and  patriotism,  and  society,  and  love,  to  awaken  it,  and 
let  it  fly  out  in  search  of  its  kindred  sentiment ;  and  it  will  not 
be  long  until  broadcloth  and  white  swiss  shall  float  down  the  aisle 
of  the  crowded  church  together,  and  a  new  book  of  thy  destiny 
shall  be  opened,  revealing  mysteries  which  thou  hast  never 
dreamed  of  before.  Loneliness  will  quit  thee  there,  and  thou 
shalt  walk  in  sentiment  and  newness  of  life. 


LOVE  LETTERS  323 

Behold  the  widower,  with  his  pink  bald  head,  his  wrinkles, 
and  his  rheumatism! 

He  wires  in  and  wires  out, 
And  leaves  the  ladies  all  in  doubt 
As  to  what  is  his  age,  what  he  is  worth, 
And  whether  or  not  he  owns  the  earth. 

He  is  the  most  popular  man  of  any  age  who  moves  in 
society.  Always  light-hearted  and  gay,  he  knows  all  the  nigh 
cuts  to  the  hearts  of  the  fair.  He  is  the  "beautifulest"  ant  in  the 
sugar  bowl,  and  always  gets  his  share  of  the  sugar;  he  is  the 
swiftest  old  colt  on  the  turf  of  love;  he  leaves  you  at  the  first 
quarter  post ;  he  passes  the  swellest  of  the  swell  in  the  first  half 
mile,  and  comes  in  on  the  home  stretch  with  his  nozzle  over  the 
moon  and  his  tail  over  the  stars,  a  winner  in  a  walk.  His  power 
lies  in  sentiment. 

You  are  as  good-looking  as  he,  and  are  endowed  with  as 
much  good  sense.  Why  don't  you  study  him  and  learn  the  art 
of  courting?  It  is  the  law  of  nature  that  all  life  shall  mate, 
therefore  you  are  disobeying  the  law  of  nature.  I  think  nature 
is  wiser  than  you,  and  you  ought  to  think  so,  too ;  and  now  that 
the  beautiful  springtime  has  come,  follow  the  example  of  "Bob 
White,"  and  begin  to  whistle  for  your  mate.  It  will  soon  be 
time  for  the  billing  and  cooing  of  the  doves.     Bill  and  coo  ye. 

Longfellow  was  not  only  a  poet,  but  a  philosopher,  when 

he  said: 

As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is. 

So  unto  the  man  is  woman ; 

Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him; 

Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows; 

Useless  each  without  the  other. 

I  am  sure  you  need  a  little  bending,  as  well  as  some  mend- 
ing and  somebody  to  follow  you,  especially  when  you  are  out  late 
at  night.  I  am  equally  sure  that  you  are  useless  without  the 
other. 

Couple  up,  get  your  mate,  claim  your  bride,  and  begin  to 
live.  In  the  delightful  cotillon  of  married  life,  give  your 
partner  your  right  hand  and  swing  halfway  round.     Swing, 


swing,  swing 


Yours  in  the  swing, 

KOBEKT  L.  TaYLOE. 


324  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

TO  THE  DRUMMERS. 

En  Route,  April  10,  1899. 
My  Dear  Fellow-Travelers: 

It  is  said  that  birds  of  a  feather  flock  together.  I  am  glad 
to  be  once  more  able  to  put  on  the  plumage  of  a  "traveling  man," 
and  to  flock  with  the  commercial  nightingales  again.  What  am 
I  but  a  drummer  ?  You  sing  in  your  flight  of  things  to  eat  and 
things  to  wear;  I  sing  of  "the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of." 
You  sell  soap ;  I  peddle  sentiment.  You  deal  in  dry  goods ;  I 
deal  in  notions,  but  sometimes  my  goods  are  dry.  You  carry 
hardware;  I  use  a  few  augers  in  my  trade.  You  worry  the 
flesh;  I  crucify  the  spirit.  Your  wares  are  "of  the  earth, 
earthy;"  mine  are  of  the  wind,  windy. 

So  here  we  drummers  go,  drumming  and  humming,  and 
loving  and  laughing  and  singing. 

Puffing  and  blowing, 
Fiddling  and  bowing, 
Sampling  and  showing, 
Hearts  overflowing, 
Going,  going,  going— gone! 

We  are  always  gone,  but  our  "goneness"  is  beneficial  to  our 
families  in  more  ways  than  one.  "Distance  lends  enchantment 
to  the  view,"  and  thus  our  wives  and  children  and  sweethearts 
have  fewer  opportunities  to  view  our  un enchantments.  It  is  the 
only  way  we  have  to  keep  the  loom  of  love  in  motion  with  a 
little  New  York  Exchange  about  once  a  month,  and  we  always 
receive  blessings  and  benedictions  in  exchange  for  "the  aforesaid 
and  the  same."  There  is  nothing  so  necessary  to  the  comfort 
of  a  family  as  cash.  It  has  been  thoroughly  demonstrated  by 
actual  experience  that  our  loved  ones  cati  do  without  us  better 
than  they  can  do  without  cash;  and,  besides,  we  are  never  at 
home  to  "iDother  'em."  There  is  another  good  thing  in  this 
"goneness" — we  are  at  work.  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  "an 
idle  brain  is  the  devil's  workshop,"  and  it  might  be  added  that 
idle  hands  are  his  drmnmers.  But  the  real,  genuine  drummers 
are  the  gray  matter  of  commerce,  the  nerve  of  trade;  they  are 
the  active  principle  of  business ;  their  industry  and  energy  shut 
the  devil  oxit  of  their  brains  and  bring  the  angels  of  happiness 


LOVE  LETTERS  32$ 

to  many  a  heart  and  many  a  home.  They  are  the  song  birds  of 
civilization,  the  carrier  doves  of  peace  and  groceries  and  general 
furnishing  goods;  they  are  the  honeybees  of  thrift,  and  the 
merchants  are  their  buttercups  and  clover  blossoms;  they  are 
the  angels  of  comfort  and  joy,  and  they  carry  in  their  grip- 
sacks samples  of  all  the  seasons. 

If  I  were  a  sculptor,  I  would  chisel  from  marble  my  ideal 
of  progress.  I  would  make  it  the  form  and  figure  of  a  drummer 
with  his  gripsack  in  his  hand — "loaded  for  bear." 

I  once  heard  a  man  sneer  at  the  drummers,  and  I  said  to 
him:  "Sir,  what  are  we  all,  in  every  profession  and  vocation 
of  life,  but  drummers  ?"  The  politician  drums  for  votes  with 
the  drumstick  of  the  American  eagle;  the  preacher  drums  for 
souls  with  hallelujahs  and  the  beautiful  story  of  love;  the 
farmer  drums  the  earth  and  his  lazy  mule  for  bread ;  the  lawyer 
drums  the  jury  for  his  fees;  the  doctor  dnmis  for  health;  the 
railroad  drums  for  passengers;  the  hotel  drums  for  guests;  the 
lecturer  drums  "just  for  fun,"  and  the  devil  drums  us  all.  The 
best  drummer  is  the  preacher,  the  best-dressed  drummer  is  the 
drummer,  and  the  best-looking  drummer  is  the  lecturer. 

There  is  another  class  of  drummers  which  I  was  about  to 
forget;  they  are  the  editors  who  drum  for  hides  and  scalps.  I 
am  especially  indebted  to  this  peculiar  class  of  drummers  for 
my  bald  head,  but — thank  the  Lord — I  still  have  some  of  my 
hide  left;  and  yet,  when  I  leave  the  field  of  politics  and  come 
out  on  the  road  with  the  sure  enough  drummers,  the  editors 
always  drum  for  me  and  fill  my  life  with  happiness  until  I  for- 
get my  political  wounds  and  love  the  quill  drivers  still. 

But  returning  to  the  smiling  subject  of  this  epistle,  I  wish 
to  say  all  the  good  things  I  can  for  the  drummers,  because  they 
deserve  much  more  than  they  receive.  They  are  the  thermome- 
ters of  prosperity  and  depression.  When  I  see  the  drummers 
busy  in  the  day  and  laughing  in  the  hotels  at  night,  and  smoking 
and  spinning  yarns,  I  know  that  times  are  good  and  money  is  in 
circulation,  and  that  the  country  is  in  good  condition ;  but  when 
I  see  the  drummers  droop  and  look  sour  and  talk  sour ;  when  I 
see  them  but  few  and  far  between  on  the  road,  then  I  know 
that  money  is  scarce  and  that  hard  times  hangs  like  a  pall  of 
gloom  over  the  land.     The  best  sign  of  prosperity  which  I  have 


326  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

seen  lately  is  the  fact  that,  with  the  return  of  the  robins  and 

bluebirds,  the  drummers  are  swarming  like  bumblebees  among 

the  fragrant  bloom  of  springtime;  and  I  am  swarming  with 

them,  and  receiving  my  share  of  the  honey. 

The  drummer  watches  the  brow  of  the  merchant.     If  it  is 

dark  and  cloudy,  he  knows  that  his  prospect  for  a  big  sale  is  bad. 

In  my  trade,  I  watch  for  the  brow  of  the  skies ;  and  if  it  is  dark 

and  cloudy,  I  feel  very  sad.     There  is  nothing  which  gives  the 

lecturer  the  nightmare  so  surely  and  completely  as  a  rainy  night ; 

there  is  nothing  that  kills  a  drummer  so  dead  as  a  drought ;  and 

thus 

"This  world  goes  roun'  and  roun'," 
Sometimes  we're  up,  sometimes  we're  down. 

But  I  feel  sure  that  we  get  along  about  as  well  as  other  folks. 
Human  life,  both  high  and  low,  is  a  game  of  seesaw  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave.  The  best  thing  for  a  drummer  to  do  is  to  be 
contented  with  his  lot  until  he  finds  the  gap  down  leading  to  a 
better  lot;  the  best  way  to  find  the  gap  down  is  to  hunt  for  it; 
the  best  way  to  hunt  for  it  is  to  work  and  think,  and  save 
a  little  of  what  you  get  each  month.  The  first  speech  my  mother 
ever  taught  me  was  this: 

Little  drops  of  water,  little  grains  of  sand, 
Make  the  mighty  ocean  and  the  pleasant  land. 

Save  your  sand,  boys,  and  bottle  up  some  of  your  silver  dewdrops 
for  the  future,  for  "there'll  come  a  time  some  day"  when  you 
will  need  both.  The  more  you  save  the  sooner  you  can  find 
rest  and  happiness ;  and  isn't  this,  after  all,  your  dream  ?  If  I 
could  look  into  every  drummer's  heart,  I  would  find  one  hope 
blossoming  there  cherished  above  all  others;  it  is  for  the  day 
when  he  may  no  longer  carry  the  gripsack.  One  of  the  sweetest 
things  Byron  ever  said  was  this: 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watchdog's  honest  bark 

Bay  deep-mouthed  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come. 

Yours  truly, 

Robert  L.  Taylor. 


LOVE   LETTERS  327 

TO  THE  FIDDLERS. 

En  Route,  April  24,  1899. 
My  Dear  Fellow-Sawyers: 

Experience  teaelies  ns  that  first  impressions  are  the  more 
lasting.  Next  to  the  impressions  Avhich  I  received  from  a  dog- 
wood sprout  or  twig  of  a  weeping  willow,  when  I  was  a  bare- 
footed boy,  are  the  impressions  which  were  made  upon  my  yoimg 
mind  and  heart  by  the  fiddlers.  The  tunes  they  used  to  play 
got  tangled  in  my  memory  and  they  are  just  as  vivid  there  today 
as  are  the  faces  I  used  to  know  and  the  incidents  and  happenings 
of  the  happy  days  gone  by. 

I  can  see  Polk  Scott  and  Sam  Rowe  just  as  plainly  now 
as  I  actually  saw  them  when  I  was  a  ten-year-old  lad  at  the  old 
log  schoolhouse  that  stood  by  the  bubbling  spring.  They  played 
at  the  "exhibition"  at  the  close  of  our  school ;  and  I  have  never 
heard  any  sweeter  music  since.  Sam's  big  brown  whiskers 
rolled  and  tumbled  in  ecstasy  on  his  fiddle,  as  he  rocked  to  and 
fro,  with  half-closed  eyes,  and,  with  whizzing  bow,  reveled  in 
the  third  heaven  of  "Arkansas  Traveler."  Polk's  black  mustache 
swayed  and  flopped  like  a  raven's  wings,  as  he  soared  amid  the 
grandeurs  of  "Natchez  Under  the  Hill." 

They  were  the  "Paganinis"  of  the  mountains ;  they  were  the 
"Ole  Bulls"  of  our  humble  society;  they  were  the  royal  "Re- 
menyis"  of  our  rural,  rollicking  festivities;  they  were  big- 
hearted  and  gonial ;  they  were  noble  fellows,  and  so  are  all 
fiddlers  to  this  good  day.  Their  melodies  were  the  echoes  of 
nature's  sweet  voices.  In  every  sweep  of  the  bow  there  was  the 
drumming  of  a  pheasant  or  the  cackle  of  a  hen  or  the  call  of 
Bob  White  or  the  trill  of  a  thrush.  Sometimes  I  could  hear  a 
whippoorwill  sing;  sometimes  a  wild  goose  quack,  and  a  pan- 
ther yell ;  now  and  then  the  cats  would  fight,  and  the  music  was 
always  mellow  with  "moonshine." 

When  I  grew  a  little  larger  I  used  to  slip  out  from  under 
the  smiling  roof  of  "home,  sweet  home,"  and  cut  the  pigeon  wing 
with  the  rosy-cheeked  mountain  girls,  until  it  seemed  that  my 
very  soul  was  in  my  heels.  I  still  have  fond  recollections  of 
every  fiddler  who  played  at  the  old-time  country  dance;  and 


328  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

when  I  hear  those  sweet  old  tunes,  even  now  it  is  difficult  for  me 
to  keep  my  soul  above  my  socks. 

So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  am  a  worshipper  at  the  shrine 
of  music.  The  classics  of  Mozart  and  Mendelssohn  are  grand 
and  glorious  to  me,  but  I  cannot  be  persuaded  to  turn  my  back 
on  the  classics  of  the  plain  country  fiddlers.  The  old  country 
tunes  were  handed  down  from  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  and 
every  one  of  them  breathes  the  spirit  of  liberty;  every  old  jig 
is  an  echo  from  the  flintrock  rifles  and  shrill  fifes  of  Bunker 
Hill ;  every  "hornpipe"  is  a  refrain  from  King's  Mountain ; 
"Old  Granny  Rattletrap"  is  a  Declaration  of  Independence; 
"Jennie,  Put  the  Kittle  On,"  boils  over  with  freedom ;  "Jaybird 
Settin'  on  a  Swingin'  Limb"  was  George  Washington's  "favo- 
right,"  and  "Gray  Eagle"  was  Thomas  Jefferson's  masterpiece ; 
"Leather  Breeches"  was  the  Marseillaise  hymn  of  the  old  heroes 
who  lived  in  the  days  of  Davy  Crockett. 

No  wonder  the  fiddlers  are  so  patriotic  and  brave.  I  never 
saw  a  real,  genuine  fiddler  who  would  not  fight ;  but,  mind  you, 
I  have  quit  fiddling. 

When  I  grew  large  enough  to  cast  sheep's  eyes  at  the  girls, 
when  love  began  to  tickle  my  heart  and  the  blood  of  the  violets 
got  into  my  veins,  I  began  to  draw  the  bow  across  the  vibrant 
strings  of  the  fiddle  to  give  vent  to  my  feelings,  and  I  poured 
my  spirit  out  through  my  fingers  by  the  bucketful.  I  swapped 
spirit  for  smiles  at  the  ratio  of  sixteen  to  one ;  I  exchanged 
clogs  for  compliments,  and  jigs  for  sighs  and  sentimental  ex- 
clamations. No  ordinary  mortal  ever  felt  the  raptures  of  a 
fiddler;  the  fiddle  is  his  bride,  and  the  honeymoon  lasts  for- 
ever. 

I  fiddled  and  I  fiddled  and  I  fiddled,  until  youth  blossomed 
into  manhood,  and  still  I  fiddled  and  I  fiddled.  Politicians 
sneered  at  me  as  a  fiddler;  but  the  girls  said  it  was  no  harm, 
and  the  boys  voted  while  I  fiddled,  and  the  fiddle  won.  There 
is  always  some  old  sour  and  tuneless  hypocrite  abusing  and 
denouncing  "us  fiddlers."  I  have  heard  them  say  that  they 
never  saw  a  fiddler  who  was  "any  account,"  and  I  have  known 
good  men  who  sincerely  believed  that  fiddlers  were  dangerous  to 
communities.  There  never  was  a  greater  error  of  opinion. 
There  is  no  more  harm  in  wiggling  the  fingers  than  there  is  in 


LOVE   LETTERS  329 

wagging  the  tongue,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  more  religion 
in  a  good,  law-abiding  fiddle  than  there  is  in  some  folks  who 
outlaw  that  divine  instrument.  There  is  infinitely  more  music 
in  it  than  there  is  in  some  hymns  I  have  heard  sung  by  old 
dyspeptics  who  denounce  it.  Music  is  music,  whether  it  be  the 
laughter  and  song  of  the  fiddle  or  the  melodies  of  the  human 
voice;  music  is  the  hallelujah  of  the  soul,  whether  it  comes 
through  fiddlestrings  or  vocal  chords.  Happy  is  the  home  in 
which  fiddles  and  fiddlers  dwell,  and  nearest  to  heaven  is  the 
church  where  fiddlers  and  singers  blend  their  music  in  hymns 
of  praise  to  Almighty  God. 

I  have  heard  cultivated  musicians  laugh  at  the  country 
fiddler,  and  call  his  tunes  "rag  music;"  but  the  law  of  com- 
pensation governs  in  this  realm,  as  well  as  in  every  other,  for 
the  country  fiddlers  laugh  just  as  heartily  at  the  sublimest 
efforts  of  high-class  musicians.  Neither  can  understand  the 
other.  To  the  noteless  and  untutored  fiddler  the  grandest  efforts 
of  the  greatest  orchestra  are  the  senseless  hieroglyphics  of  sound ; 
to  the  cultured  ear  the  simple  melodies  which  dance  out  from 
the  bosom  of  the  fiddle  and  the  soul  of  the  fiddler  are  but  the 
ridiculous  buzzings  of  bumblebee  discord. 

But  there  is  no  reason  why  the  virtuoso  and  the  fiddler 
should  fall  out.  Let  the  nightingale  sing  in  his  realm,  and  let 
the  cricket  sing  in  his.  We  will  all  play  together  on  golden 
fiddles  in  the  "sweet  by  and  by." 

Yours  truly, 

Robert  L.  Taylor. 


(21) 


330  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.    TAYLOR 

TO  THE  FISHERMEN. 

En  Route,  May  8,  1899. 
Dear  Brethren: 

The  blissful  days  of  spring  have  come, 

The  gladdest  of  the  year, 
Of  purpling  hills  and  fragrant  bloom, 

And  rivers  bright  and  clear. 

The  banks  of  the  brooks  are  green ;  the  boughs  of  the  trees 
bend  down;  the  trout  are  fluttering  in  the  streams  below,  and 
the  birds  are  nesting  above.  The  bees  are  humming  among  the 
flowers ;  the  forests  are  singing ;  the  waters  are  laughing,  and  all 
the  world  is  radiant  with  joy.  Love  rides  on  every  passing 
breeze  and  lurks  in  every  flower. 

It  is  nature's  sweet  resurrection  and  beauty  reigns  supreme. 

What  a  glorious  time  to  resurrect  the  fishing  tackle  from  its 
dusty  tomb  in  the  lumber  room,  and  the  red  worm  from  his 
slimy  sepulcher  under  the  sod,  and  to  impale  him  on  the  hook 
and  send  him  diving  after  suckers.  What  a  glorious  time  to 
camp  and  frolic  on  the  margin  of  the  frollicking  stream,  with 
skillets  and  lard,  and  streaked  and  striped  country  bacon,  and 
plenty  of  onions  and  corn  bread,  and  good  butter  and  eggs,  and 
fiddles  to  play,  and  "niggers"  for  cooks ;  big  fat  trout  frying  in 
the  pan,  black  coffee  simmering  in  the  pot,  and  "snake  medi- 
cine" in  the  "chist!"  It  is  the  Eden  of  the  seasons;  it  is  the 
heaven  of  life. 

What  a  joy  to  linger  by  the  fishing  hole. 
And  lazily  hold  your  fishing  pole, 

and  wait  for  the  fish  to  bite!  What  a  delightful  thrill  is  the 
thrill  of  a  nibble!  And  when  you  hook  a  two-pound  bass  and 
eagerly  undertake  to  land  him  high  and  dry,  what  beautiful 
thoughts  pass  through  your  brain  and  what  eloquent  figures  of 
speech  escape  from  your  lips  when  your  line  gets  tangled  among 
the  limbs  ten  feet  above  your  head,  and  you  see  your  fluttering 
prize  dangle  for  a  moment  in  the  air,  and  then,  with  a  farewell 
flounce,  bid  you  good  evening  as  he  drops  back  into  the  water 
and  darts  away  like  an  arrow!  This  is  a  splendid  illustration 
of  the  feelings  of  a  candidate  for  political  office  who  is  sure 


LOVE   LETTERS  331 

of  his  election.  He  sees  victory  dangling  for  a  moment  in  the 
air,  and  then,  with  a  farewell  flounce,  it  gets  away  from  him, 
and  there  is  "weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth." 

Fishing  is  the  greatest  sport  in  the  world.  There  is  nothing 
so  exhilirating  to  the  nervous  system  as  the  shock  of  a  "jerk," 
and  there  is  nothing  so  relaxing  as  the  sight  of  a  vanishing  perch 
with  your  broken  hook  in  his  mouth.  There  is  also  a  great 
deal  of  relaxation  in  sitting  on  a  snag  five  hours  with  bated 
breath  and  baited  hook  waiting  for  an  exhilaration  which  never 
comes.  I  have  known  gentlemen  to  engage  in  this  sort  of 
relaxation  all  day  long,  and  save  their  reputation  as  fishermen 
only  by  buying  a  string  of  the  finny  tribe  from  some  old  dusky 
wizard  of  the  piscatorial  art,  and  then  swearing  in  camp  that 
they  did  it  "with  their  little  red  worms."  This  is  another  illus- 
tration of  the  success  of  some  statesmen. 

The  ultima  thule  of  happiness  is  the  sweet  expectancy  of  a 
laughing  and  yarning  gang  of  fishermen  advancing  to  the  fish- 
ing ground  in  the  morning  with  buckets  full  of  minnows,  and 
hands  full  of  tackle  and  pockets  full  of  cigars  and  tobacco  and 
"sich  like." 

Poets  may  sing  of  banquets  in  gilded  halls  where  all  the 
mingled  sweets  of  the  culinary  art  are  heaped  upon  the  table, 
and  where  fairies  glint  like  speckled  trout  in  the  crimson  depths 
of  wine,  and  painted  devils  dance  in  the  amber  floods  of  "corn" 
and  "rye;"  but  give  me  a  fisherman's  lunch  and  a  fisherman's 
appetite  beneath  the  spreading  tree  down  by  the  riverside  in  the 
deep-tangled  wildwood,  where  the  waters  murmur  at  my  feet 
and  birds  make  music  all  the  day.  Let  the  red-nosed  revelers 
sip  their  wine  and  chuckle  over  the  triumph  of  their  trusts  and 
combines,  but  give  me  a  drink  of  sparkling  water  from  the  cold 
mountain  spring  and  liberty  among  the  hills.  Let  the  men  of 
millions  have  their  pleasure  in  their  palaces ;  I  envy  them  not ; 
let  them  pass  the  gilded  hours  bowing  and  scraping  on  velvet 
carpets  and  lolling  on  silken  sofas ;  but  give  me  the  pleasure  of 
the  reel  and  line,  and  let  me  bow  and  scrape  on  nature's  rich 
carpet  of  green,  among  the  redbuds  and  honeysuckles,  and  loll 
on  the  moss-covered  logs  amid  violets  and  bluebells  near  the 
bend  of  the  river,  where  the  cranes  bow  and  scrape  to  the 
tadpoles,  and  the  bullfrog  sings  his  sweetest  song.     Let  histo- 


332  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

rians  tell  of  the  glory  of  heroes  bringing  home  their  spoils  from 
conquered  lands,  but  give  me  a  triumphal  march  to  my  own 
happy  home  with  a  beautiful  string  of  fish.  The  hero  will  roll 
and  tumble  at  night  with  horrible  dreams  of  blood  and  death, 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  old  story  of  the  family  of  five 
but  I  will  sleep  like  a  baby,  and  dream  of  trout  four  feet  long, 
brothers  who  lived  in  a  cabin  ?  The  only  sleeping  arrangements 
they  had  were  two  quilts;  they  all  slept  together  on  one,  and 
covered  with  the  other,  and  in  the  night  when  one  wished  to 
turn  over  he  shouted  "spoon"  to  the  rest,  and  they  all  turned 
at  once.  One  day  one  of  the  boys  went  to  the  river  to  shoot 
fish;  he  climbed  a  tree  on  the  bank  and  crawled  out  on  a  limb 
over  the  stream  and  lay  there  looking  down  and  watching  for  a 
scaly  victim  to  shoot  at ;  but  his  position  was  so  comfortable 
that  he  went  to  sleep,  and  a  mischievous  fellow  passing  by,  know- 
ing the  habit  of  the  family,  shouted  "spoon"  at  the  top  of  his 
voice ;  the  sleeping  fisherman  immediately  whirled  over  and  fell 
ten  feet  splashing  into  the  water.  The  best  way  to  insure  a 
string  of  fish  is  to  keep  wide  awake  when  you  are  fishing. 

I  used  to  hear  another  story  of  a  crowd  of  jolly  fishermen 
who  went  into  a  camp  in  the  heart  of  a  wilderness.  A  solemn 
agreement  was  entered  into  to  the  effect  that  each  one  of  the 
party  should  take  his  turn  cooking,  and  it  was  further  agreed 
that  the  first  man  who  complained  of  the  quality  of  the  cooking 
should  be  compelled  to  cook  throughout  the  remainder  of  the 
outing  or  be  expelled  from  the  camp;  none  of  the  party  knew 
anything  about  cooking,  and  finally  one  day  when  the  "rashens" 
were  in  bad  shape,  there  was  nothing  but  some  rusty  bacon  and 
wilted  beans  for  dinner.  All  of  the  party  ate  and  made  faces, 
but  one  of  them  suddenly  forgot  and  said:  "These  are  the 
nastiest  beans  I  ever  tasted,  but  I  like  'em."  The  last  clause 
saved  him. 

I  have  seen  this  sort  of  thing  occur  in  politics  many  a  time ; 
it  very  frequently  happens  that  the  people  have  to  swallow  un- 
savory things  and  preserve  their  party  loyalty  by  protesting  that 
they  "like  'em." 

The  best  medicine  for  nervous  strain  and  overwork  is  a 
fishing  rod  and  plenty  of  bait.  The  world  has  gone  mad  on  the 
subject  of  money-getting  and  glory-winning.     I  love  the  clink 


LOVE   LETTERS  333 

of  the  dollar  myself,  but  only  for  what  it  will  buy,  and  to  help 
"some  shipwrecked  and  forlorn  brother;"  I  like  a  little  tinge 
of  glory,  too,  but  not  at  the  expense  of  the  happiness  of  others. 
I  would  rather  catch  a  fish  than  get  a  dollar  any  day;  I  would 
rather  be  a  live  fisherman  than  a  dead  Caesar;  I  would  rather 
wade  in  water  than  to  wade  in  blood ;  I  would  rather  wage  war 
on  fish  than  on  the  Philippines;  I  would  rather  have  a  fisher- 
man's luck  than  to  be  the  commander  of  the  late  Spanish  navy ; 
therefore  I  beseech  you,  brethren,  to  be  steadfast  and  abide  in 
peace  and  your  gum  boots.  It  is  my  intention  to  join  you  soon. 
I  have  been  fishing  for  suckers  all  the  spring;  I  now  propose 
to  catch  some  trout.  Keep  a  place  for  me  in  the  tent  and  save 
me  a  seat  on  the  rock ;  don't  catch  all  the  fish  before  I  get  there. 

Trust  in  the  Lord  and  keep  your  feet  dry,  if  possible ;  don't 
swear,  or  you  will  catch  no  fish. 

Yours  while  the  fish  swim  and  the  waters  flow, 

Robert  L.  Taylor. 


TO  THE  MOTHERS-IJ^-LAW. 

Your  Majesties: 

I  have  always  had  great  charity  for  the  mistakes  of  Adam, 
because  he  had  no  mother-in  law  to  curb  him.  If  she  had  been 
there  the  forbidden  fruit  would  not  have  been  eaten.  All  the 
world  would  now^  be  paradise ;  the  women  would  still  be  dressing 
in  sunshine,  and  the  men  would  still  be  clad  in  climate.  All  the 
ills  we  now  endure  are  the  fruits  of  sin ;  all  sin  is  the  outgro\vth 
of  the  first  transgression,  and  the  first  transgression  was  com- 
mitted because  there  was  no  mother-in-law  in  Eden  to  forbid  it. 
Satan  would  have  kept  his  distance  if  Adam  had  been  a  son- 
in-law  ;  and  even  after  man  had  fallen,  the  Lord  saw  that  he  was 
prone  to  fall  still  lower,  and  so  he  provided  the  third  person, 
singular,  and  named  her  "mother-in-law,"  to  be  his  guardian 
angel  and  watch  him  day  and  night.  But  it  has  been  the  habit 
of  malicious  men  from  time  immemorial  to  speak  disrespectfully 
of  the  dear  old  spectacled  angels  and  to  refer  to  them  as  the 
embodiment  of  tyranny  and  the  personification  of  terror. 


334  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

I  once  heard  of  a  man  who  said  that  his  principal  posses- 
sions in  this  world  were  an  appetite  and  a  mother-in-law,  and 
that  he  had  never  been  able  to  satisfy  either. 

A  crowd  of  boys  dragged  a  cannon  down  to  the  river  one 
Fourth  of  July  and  began  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  by  firing  across  the  stream.  A 
man  came  running,  with  his  hat  off  and  his  hair  floating  in  the 
air,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice :  "Stop  shooting,  boys ;  for 
the  Lord's  sake,  stop  shooting!"  "What  do  you  wish  us  to 
stop  shooting  for  ?"  asked  the  boys ;  and,  with  a  voice  trembling 
with  fear,  he  shouted  back  to  them:  "My  mother-in-law  got 
droMTied  there  yesterday,  and  I  am  afraid  you  will  raise  her." 

I  have  frequently  heard  it  said  of  sad  and  subdued-looking 
men,  as  I  have  passed  along  in  life,  that  they  were  suffering 
with  a  bad  case  of  mother-in-law.  It  has  come  to  pass  almost 
everywhere  that  if  the  maternal  ancestor  of  the  wife  even  sug- 
gests to  the  husband  in  the  tenderest  tones  of  voice  and  the 
most  affectionate  language  that  he  ougJit  not  to  do  a  thing,  he  is 
sure  to  do  it,  out  of  fear  of  public  opinion;  or  if  she  urges 
him  to  do  a  thing,  he  leaves  it  undone  to  prove  to  the  world  that 
he  is  not  ^T)ossed"  by  his  mother-in-law.  All  this  abuse  and  all 
these  vicious  attacks  on  the  mothers  of  our  wives  are  mean  and 
contemptible,  and  a  direct  reflection  upon  our  wives  them- 
selves. The  sweetest  and  purest  and  best  woman  I  ever  saw, 
except  my  mother  and  my  wife,  is  my  mother-in-law.  Her  life 
has  been  a  sacrifice  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  her  children, 
and  so  it  is  with  most  mothers-in-law.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten 
it  could  be  appropriately  and  truthfully  said  that  she  is  suffer- 
ing from  a  bad  case  of  son-in-law.  If  a  man  is  unkind,  or  even 
neglectful  of  his  wife,  he  is  pretty  sure  to  hear  from  the 
mother-in-law;  that  is  right.  If  he  fails  to  provide  for  his 
family,  she  has  a  right  to  look  at  him  over  the  top  of  her 
spectacles  and  make  the  king's  English  crack  like  a  cowhide 
around  his  ears ;  if  he  wantonly  spends  his  evenings  away  from 
his  own  fireside  and  comes  home  with  snakes  in  his  boots,  she 
has  a  right  to  "stick  her  nose  in  his  business"  and  her  fists  in 
his  face,  and  it  is  her  divine  right  to  "lay  down  the  law"  to 
him. 


LOVE    LETTERS  335 

T  think  it  is  a  glorious  thing  for  society  that  weak-minded 
and  guilty  men  are  afraid  of  their  mothers-in-law.  Otherwise, 
many  a  home  would  be  turned  into  Hades,  and  many  a  sweet 
and  gentle  spirit  would  be  einished ;  many  a  family  of  little 
children  would  suffer,  and  many  a  son-in-law  who  now  walks 
in  "the  straight  and  narrow  path"  would  be  a  worthless  vaga- 
bond in  the  gutters  and  the  slums  of  earth. 

The  mother-in-law  is  the  conservator  of  the  peace,  and  not 
its  disturber,  as  many  bad  men  would  make  it  appear.  She 
is  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  enlightening  the  little  world  within 
the  four  walls  of  home ;  she  is  the  Minerva  of  the  hearthstone ; 
Jove  is  enthroned  upon  her  brow,  and  the  Furies  sleep  in  her 
eyes.  Woe  betide  the  son-in-law  who  transgresses  the  law  of 
Jove!  for  then  the  righteous  Furies  wake  and  leap  like  forked 
lightnings  into  the  face  of  the  transgressor,  and  he  is  left  in  the 
condition  of  the  man  who  went  out  West.  News  came  back  to 
his  father:  "Your  son  is  dead."  The  old  man  telegraphed 
immediately,  "Send  me  his  remains,"  and  received  this  reply: 
"They  hain't  no  remains ;  a  cyclone  struck  him." 

But  to  the  man  who  does  his  faithful  duty  to  his  family, 
his  country  and  his  God,  the  mother-in-law  is  a  "thing  of  beauty 
and  a  joy  forever."  She  nurses  his  children  and  cares  for 
them,  she  stays  with  them  at  night  while  he  and  his  wife  are  at 
the  party;  she  nurses  him  w^hen  he  is  sick  and  makes  him 
swallow  his  medicine  on  time,  and  cuts  off  all  communication 
with  the  outside  world  till  he  is  well  again.  If  his  creditors 
become  too  numerous  and  annoying,  she  stands  guard  at  the 
door  and  hedges  it  about  with  fire  and  brimstone.  She  is  the 
cornerstone  of  the  church  and  the  leader  of  the  "Ladies'  Aid 
Society;"  she  is  the  president  of  the  "Busy  Bees"  and  the  re- 
cording secretary  of  the  "Daughters  of  the  Revolution ;"  she  is 
the  grand  regent  of  the  "Daughters  of  the  Confederacy"  and  the 
sponsor  of  the  "Grand  Army  of  the  Republic ;"  she  presides 
over  all  sewing  circles  and  knits  socks  for  the  circuit  riders; 
she  is  the  secretary  of  war  in  every  neighborhood  and  the  com- 
mander in  chief  in  every  home;  she  is  the  foundation  of  civil- 
ized society,  for  society  could  not  exist  without  families,  and 
there  could  be  no  legitimate  family  without  a  mother-in-law; 
she  is  the  grandmother  of  orators,  poets,  scholars,  heroes  and 


336  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

statesmen.  Then  let  us  cherish  our  mother-in-law  and  be  tender 
with  her;  let  every  husband  fall  at  her  feet  and  shout:  "Great 
is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!"  Let  us  give  her  praise  and  honor 
and  glory,  for  in  dealing  with  her  "discretion  is  the  better  part 
of  valor." 

My  advise  to  every  bachelor  is  to  get  a  mother-in-law;  and 
to  every  widower,  to  get  two  mothers-in-law.  Take  up  the  white 
man's  burden,  old  boys;  take  up  the  white  man's  burden;  join 
the  happy  band  of  benedicts  and  learn  to  sing  sweet  lullabies 
and  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

God  pity  the  homeless  and  childless  and  mother-in-lawless 
man!  He  does  not  know  what  the  twining  of  tender  arms 
means;  he  has  never  felt  that  rapture  which  fills  the  heart  of 
the  father  and  husband  and  son-in-law  when  he  crosses  the 
threshold  of  home  and  hears  the  sweet  voices  of  welcome  there. 
The  laughter  and  songs  of  little  children,  blood  of  his  blood  and 
flesh  of  his  flesh,  have  never  been  tangled  with  his  life.  He  is  a 
living  disappointment,  and  his  very  existence  has  soured  on  his 
stomach. 

]^o  man  is  safe  on  this  tide  of  life  without  a  mother-in-law. 

Dear  old  guardians  of  our  wives  and  our  homes,  with  un- 
covered head  I  bow  to  you  and  subscribe  myself,  sincerely  and 
faithfully, 

One  of  your  sons-in-law, 

ROBEET  L.  TaYLOE. 


TO  THE  CANDIDATE. 

En  Route,  June  12,  1899. 
Dear  Children  of  Hope: 

You  have  my  sincere  commiseration  and  tender  sympathy. 

Thorns  are  hid  among  the  flowers, 

Along  the  path  you  tread, 
Thorns  are  in  the  passing  hours, 

And  thorny  is  your  bed. 

You  are  "in  the  hands  of  your  friends,"  and  they  are  quietly 
working  up  your  boom.     Like  Caesar,  you  are  swearing  you 


LOVE   LETTERS  337 

don't  want  the  crown,  but  you  smile  graciously  on  your  Antonies, 
who  are  offering  it.  The  more  you  refuse,  the  more  they  press 
you  to  receive  it  and  save  your  country  from  wreck  and  ruin. 
You  are  nervous  and  reticent;  you  fear  the  daggers  of  Brutus 
and  Cassius.  While  your  friends  are  tossing  their  hats  in  the 
air  and  shouting,  "Vive  la  Candidate !"  the  low  and  vulgar  are 
"tellin'  a  pack  of  tales"  on  you.  They  whisper  around  that  you 
are  weak  in  the  upper  story;  that  you  are  not  altogether  "the 
clean  thing  sweetened ;"  that  you  are  deceitful  and  totally  un- 
reliable; they  call  you  "hog"  and  "buzzard"  and  "mangy  cur;" 
the  newspapers  skin  you  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  little  whip- 
per-snapper politicians  make  carrion  of  your  good  name.  You 
dare  not  defend  yourself,  lest  you  be  branded  as  a  bully.  All 
you  can  do  is  to  smile  and  fight,  not  with  guns,  but  with  wind. 
There  are  "sweet  prospects,  sweet  birds  and  sweet  flowers" 
before  you,  dear  candidate.  Millions  of  churches  just  completed 
need  new  bells,  and  the  committee  will  soon  wait  on  you  for  a 
donation,  and  you  must  "ante  up"  the  "dough;"  there  are 
also  millions  of  church  organs  unpaid  for,  and  of  course  the 
candidate  must  bear  his  share  of  the  burden;  book  agents 
will  darken  your  horizon,  and  it  is  your  duty  to  carry  a  fountain 
pen  to  facilitate  subscription  work ;  campaign  borrowers  will 
haunt  you,  softly  whispering  in  your  ear :  "Sweet  spirit,  hear 
my  prayer."  You  must  be  ready  to  go  security  and  sign  every 
kind  of  bond  for  "your  friends;"  you  must  not  wince  when 
some  enthusiastic  fool  grasps  you  by  the  hand  and  twists  it 
and  squeezes  it  until  you  can  hear  the  bones  pop ;  you  must  go 
into  ecstasies  of  laughter  when  your  intoxicated  fellow-citizen 
stops  you  on  the  street  and  puts  his  arm  around  your  neck  and 
blows  your  ear  full  of  corn  whisky  and  tobacco  juice,  while  he 
whispers  to  you  a  silly  yarn  which  he  has  told  you  a  dozen 
times  before;  you  must  provide  yourself  with  Sunday  school 
speeches,  picnic  addresses,  commencement  orations,  Fourth  of 
July  pyrotechnics,  flaming  eulogies  on  Thomas  Jefferson,  after- 
dinner  talks  at  dollar  banquets,  apostrophes  to  "The  Press,"  ex- 
temporaneous speeches  for  conventions,  tributes  to  music,  flights 
of  eloquence  on  the  influence  of  women,  bouquet  acceptances,  and 
side-splitting  anecdotes  for  men  only;  you  must  have  all  these 
on  your  tongue — yea,  verily,  at  its  very  end;  you  must  carry 


338  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

an  affidavit  face,  and  when  you  tell  political  lies,  do  it  with  a 
clear  conscience,  else  the  muddy  look  in  your  eyes  will  convict 
you.  The  greatest  blessing  in  politics  is  to  possess  the  hide  of 
a  rhinoceros,  thorn-proof  and  dagger-defying;  and  if  you  have 
a  kind  heart,  encase  it  with  steel  and  hedge  it  around  with 
frowns  and  dignity.  There  is  nothing  like  dignity  as  a  protec- 
tion to  the  candidate  who  has  no  brains.  Throw  sympathy  to  the 
dogs,  if  you  would  be  "great;"  it  is  looked  upon  by  politicians 
as  a  sign  of  weakness ;  and  if  you  have  gratitude  in  your  heart, 
strangle  it,  for  the  v/ord  "gratitude"  is  not  in  the  "bright  lexi- 
con" of  politics.  Stern  old  Andrew  Johnson  drove  center  when 
he  said :  "Gratitude  is  a  lively  sense  of  favors  to  come."  When 
James  G.  Blaine  was  told  that  a  certain  prominent  gentleman 
was  opposing  him  in  his  canvass,  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye:  "I  am  surprised  to  hear  that,  for  I  cannot  remember 
that  I  ever  did  him  a  favor."  But  I  think  Mr.  Blaine  went  a 
little  too  far,  because  when  I  was  in  politics  I  found  in  my 
humble  career  many  men  who  appreciated  honors  conferred 
upon  them,  and  who  have  been  as  true  and  faithful  and  kind  to 
me  in  the  evening  as  they  were  in  the  morning;  and  yet  in  my 
little  sphere  I  have  had  my  little  Brutuses. 

Of  course  somebody  has  to  save  the  country,  and  it  might 
as  well  be  you  as  any  other  patriot.  I  saved  it  for  twenty 
years,  but  I  now  respectfully  decline  to  save  it  any  longer — 
mind  you,  I  am  not  playing  Caesar;  I  am  only  an  humble 
citizen.  In  my  State  we  have  both  Caesar  and  Pompey,  but  I 
cannot  prophesy  whether  it  will  be  the  red  or  the  bald  which 
will  roll  from  the  block.  It  is  likely  they  will  profit  by  the 
history  of  Rome  and  divide  the  empire  and  its  glory. 

There  are  many  grave  and  vital  questions  which  are  now 
confronting  the  American  people,  and  our  candidates  will  be 
called  upon  to  speak  out  upon  them  all,  and  the  people 
must  speak  at  the  ballot  box  or  liberty  will  perish  among 
its  worshipers.  The  day  is  rapidly  approaching  when  there 
will  not  be  a  drummer  on  the  road.  Hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  good  men  who  are  now  making  an  honest  living  by 
honest  work  will  soon  be  thrown  out  of  employment,  because  the 
trusts  are  localizing  business ;  hundreds  of  thousands  of  laborers 
will  be  laid  off,  because  the  trusts  are  crushing  the  small  manu- 


LOVE   LETTERS  339 

facturers ;  thousands  of  merchants  now  in  the  jobbing  business 
will  soon  wake  up  without  a  job  because  the  trusts  will  order  the 
retail  merchants  to  buy  directly  from  the  manufacturers.  The 
coil  of  the  serpent  is  tightening.  The  day  will  soon  dawn  when 
no  man  will  dare  to  enter  politics  who  does  not  wear  the  collar 
of  a  trust;  and  the  trusts  will  not  only  control  business,  but 
politics,  in  this  land  of  liberty.  The  trust  will  manage  all  cam- 
paigns, and  the  candidate  will  be  absolutely  independent  of  the 
people.  All  he  will  have  to  do  when  elected  will  be  to  draw 
his  salary  and  shout:  "Long  live  the  trusts!"  Our  country  is 
looking  for  candidates  of  courage  today — men  who  will  dare  to 
sever  the  head  of  the  serpent  from  its  body,  men  upon  whom  the 
people  can  rely  and  upon  whose  shoulders  must  rest  the  duty 
of  saving  the  republic.  I  hope  you  will  prove  yourself  the  man 
we  are  looking  for. 

Very  truly,  your  fellow-citizen, 

Egbert  L.  Tatloe. 


TO  THE  SWEETHEARTS. 

"Robin's  Roost/'  Johnson  City^  Tenn., 

June  24,  1899. 
Dear  Sweethearts: 

I  wish  that  life  might  always  be  as  sweet  to  you  as  it  is 
today,  and  that  the  world  might  ever  be  as  bright  and  beautiful. 
For  you  the  flowers  are  in  full  bloom,  and  the  air  is  burdened 
with  songs  for  your  delight.  Laughter  is  on  your  lips,  and 
love  gladdens  your  hearts  and  fills  them  with  emotion  which  no 
tongue  can  express.  To  you  every  grove  is  a  paradise  on  earth, 
and  every  grapevine  swing  is  a  sylvan  chariot.  To  you  the 
humming  birds  and  butterflies  are  the  cherubim  and  seraphim 
of  the  meadows.  All  the  springs  that  bubble  among  the  purple 
hills,  and  all  the  brooks  that  leap  over  the  rocks  and  eddy 
among  the  shadows,  sing  to  you  of  love.  All  things  material 
become  spiritual,  and  you  live  in  the  bright  world  of  fancy 
where  rivers  of  dreams  flow  through  phantom  landscapes  of 
ineffable  beauty.     In  this  bright  realm  there  is  only  room  for 


340  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

two — two  sweethearts  hand  in  hand  and  heart  to  heart,  two 
souls  with  but  a  single  thought.  No  intruders  are  welcome 
there ;  solitude  and  silence  are  to  you  "like  apples  of  gold  in  pic- 
tures of  silver."  Every  smile  is  a  seventh  heaven,  every  loving 
look  a  glimpse  of  immortality,  and  every  moment  an  eternity 
of  happiness. 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  you  feel.  I  know,  but  cannot 
express  it.  You  rise  from  your  slumbers  in  the  morning  and 
feel  sick,  but  it  is  a  different  kind  of  sickness  from  any  you 
ever  experienced ;  you  are  sick,  but  it  is  a  sort  of  sweet  flutter 
about  your  heart,  and  a  sweet,  sickening,  honey-like  aching  of 
your  brain.  It  is  an  indefinable  wish  which  makes  yon  nervous 
and  absent-minded.  Your  soul  is  constantly  slopping  over  with 
poetic  thoughts  which  you  cannot  imprison  within  the  narrow 
confines  of  human  language;  your  heart  is  a  poplar  blossom  of 
emotions,  and  your  head  is  a  beehive  of  sweet  thoughts;  your 
appetite  has  deserted  you,  and  you  are  "pale  around  the  gills ;" 
your  spirit  feels  a  lasso  around  its  neck,  which  draws  you  out 
through  the  gate  and  down  under  the  trees  to  the  spot  where  you 
have  met  each  other  a  thousand  times.  Now  you  are  happy ;  not 
a  wave  of  trouble  rolls  across  your  peaceful  breast ;  and  "that's 
what's  the  matter  with  Hannah,"  and  that's  what's  the  matter 
with  Hiram.  It  is  a  delightful  spell  of  hallucination.  He  is  the 
"Hal,"  and  she  is  the  "Lucy;"  and  when  "Hal"  meets  "Lucy" 
what  else  could  there  be  but  hallucination?  To  his  eyes  her 
ribbons  are  streaks  of  light,  and  to  his  ears  the  "swish"  of  her 
skirt  is  like  unto  the  rustling  of  angel's  wings.  To  her  the  fuzz 
on  his  upper  lip  is  a  poem,  and  his  bestudded  shirt  front  and 
high-standing  collar  cover  a  multitude  of  sins.  To  him  she  is 
a  bundle  of  sweetness ;  to  her  he  is  a  beegum  of  honey.  To  him 
earth  is  a  clover  blossom ;  to  her  the  stars  are  a  bunch  of  daisies. 
To  both  all  nature  is  heaven,  and  all  of  life  is  tomorrow. 

Dream  on,  O  sweet  sweethearts !  Dream  in  the  leafy  bowers 
of  youth ;  dream  in  the  moonlight  of  romance ;  dream  in  the 
sunshine  of  sentiment  in  the  fruited  and  flowered  gardens  of 
exuberant  young  life.  Dream  while  yet  you  dwell  among  the 
opium-scented  poppies  of  life  in  the  careless,  happy  realm  of 
sweethearts.  Dream  on,  nor  seek  to  wake  too  soon;  for  the 
flowers  will  shed  their  bloom  at  your  feet,  the  leaves  will  wither 


LOVE  LETTERS  34 I 

and  fall  around  you,  and  the  spring  and  summer  of  love's  young 
dream  will  soon  pass  away.  The  ideal  will  melt  into  the  real; 
the  daisies  and  clover  blossoms  will  soon  be  hay,  and  the  silked 
and  tasseled  com  will  soon  turn  to  fodder  and  "roas'n  ears." 
Where  now  the  happy  twain  are  wont  to  stroll  down  among  the 
daffodils  and  pansies,  he  will  soon  be  strolling  between  the  plow- 
handles,  in  the  new-made  furrow,  breathing  the  sweet  aroma  of 
the  new-plowed  ground,  and  dreaming  of  corn  dodgers  in  the 
fall.  She  will  desert  her  balcony  to  bend  over  the  washtub 
on  the  back  porch,  and  while  she  washes  his  studless  and  collar- 
less  linen,  she  will  sadly  sing: 

What  peaceful  hours  I  once  enjoyed — 
How  sweet  their  memory  still! 

The  shadows  will  soon  be  reserved,  and  all  of  life  will  be  yester- 
day, except  the  house  rent,  and  grocery  bills,  and  taxes,  which 
will  be  due  tomorrow.  Today  he  has  red  hair  and  white  teeth ; 
tomorrow  he  will  have  white  hair  and  no  teeth.  Today  she  has 
blue  eyes  and  red  lips;  tomorrow  she  will  have  blue  lips  and 
red  eyes. 

Dream  on,  O  SAveet  sweethearts !  Your  dreams  are  now 
perfumed  with  joy  and  tinted  with  hope ;  but  you  will  wake  to 
the  realities  of  beefsteak  and  onions  and  the  struggle  for  hash. 
Dream  on,  and  rejoice  in  the  companionship  of  the  linnets  and 
orioles;  you  will  soon  prefer  the  society  of  your  pigs  and 
chickens,  and  the  bleating  of  your  sheep  and  billy  goats. 

Many  things  which  now  seem  sweet  will  soon  turn  sour. 
You  will  go  oiit  of  the  ideal  into  the  real.  But  no  matter  if 
the  flowers  fade  and  beauty  vanishes;  no  matter  if  the  phan- 
toms of  youth  take  wings,  and  all  its  fleeting  pleasures  evapo- 
rate ;  no  matter  if  cares  and  troubles  come ;  no  matter  if  your 
heads  turn  gray,  and  the  crow's  feet  gather  at  the  corners  of 
your  eyes,  and  your  brows  become  wrinkled,  and  your  cheeks 
colorless  and  your  bodies  bent;  if  your  love  is  true  love  now, 
you  will  still  be  sweethearts  as  tender  and  true  in  the  evening 
of  life  as  you  were  in  its  blissful  morning,  and  you  will  walk 
arm  in  arm  among  the  gathering  shadows  and  weave  all  the 
sweet  memories  of  youth  into  the  happy  twilight  song  of  tot- 
tering old  age.     When  love  like  this  dwells  in  the  heart,  how 


342  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

sweet  and  beautiful  are  the  lives  of  the  sweethearts,  and  what  a 
glorious  exemplification  of  the  truth  that  ''life  is  indeed  worth 
living!" 

When  I  hear  a  man  railing  at  his  wife,  or  a  woman  tonguing 
her  husband,  I  know  that  sweethearts  have  turned  sour,  and  I 
can  see  the  wisdom  of  God  in  providing  the  "tongueless  silence 
of  the  dreamless  dust."  I  have  heard  it  said  that  matches  are 
made  in  heaven,  but  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  the  saying. 
Matches  are  always  made  on  earth.  If  they  were  made  in 
heaven,  there  would  never  be  an  ill-matched  couple ;  there  would 
never  be  an  incompatible  marriage,  there  would  never  be  a 
brutal  husband  or  a  brawling  wife.  There  would  be  but  little 
of  hell  on  earth.  Every  home  would  be  an  Eden,  and  every 
heart  a  paradise. 

My  advice  to  sweethearts  is  this:  If  your  tempers  clash 
and  your  temperaments  are  not  congenial,  if  you  quarrel  before 
you  marry,  you  can  set  it  down  as  a  certainty  that  you  will 
quarrel,  and  maybe  fight,  after  marriage ;  and  if  you  quarrel  and 
fight  after  marriage,  you  might  as  well  be  in  that  land  "where 
they  never  shovel  snow."  Hell  after  death  will  be  nothing 
new  to  you. 

Find  a  congenial  spirit.  If  you  are  in  love  with  your  sweet- 
heart only  because  she  is  beautiful,  you  will  find  that  your  love 
will  be  of  "but  a  few  days  and  full  of  trouble,"  for  beauty  is 
only  skin  deep  and  soon  fades.  If  you  are  in  love  with  your 
sweetheart  for  symmetry  of  form  and  grace  of  motion,  so  has 
the  tiger  symmetry  of  form,  and  it  is  a  very  graceful  mover. 
The  loveliest  specimen  of  flesh  and  blood,  without  a  gentle 
spirit  and  a  lovable  soul,  is  only  a  "rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank 
of  hair."  Life  is  elyseum  to  congenial  spirits ;  it  is  "ehellium" 
to  uncongenial  spirits. 

Sweethearts,  choose  your  partners;  and  I  hope  and  pray 
that  you  may  not  be  disappointed  in  your  choice. 

Good-by,  sweethearts,  good-by. 

Yours  lovingly,  Robt.  L.  Tayloe. 


LOVE   LETTERS  343 

TO  THE  SPORTSMEN. 

"Robin's  Roost/'  Johnson  City,  Tenn., 

July  8,  1899. 
Dear  Princes  of  Pleasure: 

You  are  men  after  my  own  heart.  Next  to  my  wife  and 
children,  I  love  my  horses  and  my  dogs ;  next  to  the  fiddle  and 
the  bow,  I  prize  my  guns  and  my  fishing  rods;  and  above  all 
associations  except  those  of  home,  I  prefer  your  society.  There 
is  no  music  like  the  music  of  the  chase ;  there  is  no  excitement 
equal  to  it.  When  the  wild  deer  springs  from  shady  copse  or 
tangled  covert,  and  the  eager  pack  open  in  full  cry,  you  take 
the  "buck  ager"  and  tremble  on  the  stand  in  the  gap  of  the 
mountains.  You  hear  the  music  rise  and  fall  and  fall  and  rise 
from  hollow  to  hill  and  from  hill  to  hollow,  like  the  chiming 
of  distant  bells;  louder  and  louder  it  rises;  nearer  and  nearer 
it  comes;  you  turn  pale  and  quiver  from  head  to  foot;  your 
pulse  rises  to  a  hundred  and  twenty  a  minute;  you  hear  the 
quick  rustling  of  leaves  a  hundred  yards  away;  you  catch  a 
glimpse  of  something  bounding  by  you  like  a  rubber  ball ;  you 
jump  around  like  a  chicken  with  its  head  cut  off;  your  arms 
take  the  palsy,  and  you  pull  the  trigger  and  shoot  a  hole  in 
the  sky.  The  bellowing  hounds  go  sweeping  by  you  like  a 
whirlwind;  you  wipe  the  beads  of  sweat  from  your  brow,  and 
lie  dovsTi  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  to  "cuss"  and  cool.  Then 
you  hear  the  crack  of  a  Winchester  a  half  mile  down  the  hol- 
low; the  music  suddenly  hushes;  you  rise  and  run;  you  hear 
the  exultant  yell  of  your  companion,  and  there  is  venison  in 
camp  for  supper,  and  smoking  after  supper,  and  lies,  and  ex- 
planations, and  excuses;  and  then  there  is  sleep  full  of  dreams 
and  nightmares  and  visions  of  vanishing  deer  all  night  long. 

But  the  deer  hunt  is  rapidly  becoming  a  thing  of  the  past 
in  almost  every  section  of  America.  We  have  been  no  more 
merciful  to  the  gamest  game  of  the  forest  than  to  the  poor 
Indian ;  they  have  gone  together  to  the  "happy  hunting  ground." 
It  is  a  pity  that  our  lawmakers  have  so  completely  and  uni- 
versally neglected  to  give  us  wholesome  laws  for  the  protection 
of  our  game.  In  their  eagerness  to  protect  the  cities  and  towns 
they  have  forgotten  the  country,  both  man  and  beast ;  and  they 


344  LECTURES   OF  ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

still  continue  to  forget.  Our  great  forests  are  disappearing 
with  the  Indian  and  the  deer.  If  our  statesmen  would  give 
more  attention  to  the  protection  of  timber  and  game,  and  less 
to  the  upbuilding  of  privileged  classes  and  the  cultivation  of 
trusts,  our  people  would  have  more  health,  wealth  and  happi- 
ness. 

But  there  is  one  sly  old  individual  of  the  forest  and  field 
which  still  lives  in  spite  of  the  politicians,  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil,  and  he  is  the  irrepressible  and  unextinguishable 
fox,  who  still  continues  to  dress  in  his  red  uniform,  and  who 
still  delights  to  play  drum  major  for  our  yelping  hounds  and 
for  us.  Did  you  never  rise  from  your  beds  at  the  break  of 
day,  when  the  frost  was  on  the  pumpkin  and  the  air  was  crisp 
and  cool;  and  did  you  never  mount  your  prancing  horse  and 
sound  your  hunter's  horn  and  listen  to  your  howling  and  whin- 
ing hounds  as  they  gathered  around  you,  anxious  to  join  in  the 
glorious  jubilee;  and  did  you  never  hear  the  sound  of  other 
horns  in  the  distance,  simimoning  you  to  the  meeting  place  down 
at  the  end  of  the  lane  by  the  skirting  woods  ?  Of  course  you 
have,  and  you  galloped  away  with  joy ;  and  just  when  the  morn- 
ing was  hanging  her  banners  of  purple  and  gold  on  the  sky,  and 
the  forest  was  throbbing  a  tribute  of  welcome  to  her;  just  as 
the  glad  world  was  waking  with  laughter  and  song,  old  "Drum" 
and  "Fife"  opened  on  the  point  of  the  hill  just  above  you, 
"Bugle"  gave  a  few  quick  and  shrill  yelps,  and  the  hounds 
huddled  and  struck  the  trail.  Old  "Trombone"  led  off  with  a 
solo,  "Queen"  chimed  in  with  her  E  flat  cornet,  old  "Basso" 
thundered  an  accompanying  blast,  and  all  the  band  began  to 
play.  "Beauty"  laughed  with  her  piccolo,  "Sport"  and  "Speck" 
blew  the  tenor  horns,  "Blue"  and  "Black"  and  "Tan"  played 
the  alto,  and  there  were  flutes,  and  fiddles,  and  flageolets,  and 
triangles,  and  tambourines,  and  tinkling  cymbals  galore.  There 
were  fluttering  hearts  and  quivering  leaves,  and  the  hills  fairly 
shook  with  the  chorus.  The  wily  fox  circled  and  swung  around 
the  ridges,  and  the  music  circled  and  swung  close  at  his  heels. 
Joy  was  unconfined,  and  the  flying  melody  filled  the  air  like  the 
incense  of  wild  flowers.  The  echoes  caught  up  the  strain  and 
passed  it  round  from  cliff  to  cliff  until  the  beams  of  the  rising 
sun  danced  in  the  tree  tops  and  swung  corners  with  the  shadows 


LOVE   LETTERS  345 

below.  At  ten  o'clock  there  was  a  fox  skin  hanging  in  your 
barn,  you  were  eating  breakfast  at  home,  and  your  tired  hounds 
were  panting  in  the  kennel. 

Whether  it  be  hunting  the  deer,  or  chasing  the  fox,  or  shoot- 
ing out  the  eye  of  a  squirrel  on  the  highest  limb  of  the  tallest 
tree,  or  courting  the  coveys  in  the  fields,  or  flirting  with  the  fish 
in  the  streams,  the  life  of  the  sportsman  is  glorious.  Nature 
reveals  her  charms  to  him,  and  he  learns  to  love  her  more  and 
more  for  her  kindness  and  her  beauty.  His  memory  is  not  an 
old,  dingy  garret  full  of  cobwebs;  it  is  a  continent  ever  fresh 
and  green  with  landscapes,  skirted  with  cooling  woods  and 
traversed  with  sparkling  streams.  He  is  not  forever  moaning 
and  groaning  over  a  skeleton  in  his  closet ;  he  is  shouting  after 
live  meat  in  the  forest.  He  is  not  dreaming  of  gold  in  a  little 
old,  dirty,  sin-stained,  spit-spotted  counting-room;  but  he  is 
dreaming  of  the  antlered  buck,  or  a  bear  at  bay,  and  listening 
for  the  rustle  of  the  wild  turkey's  wings,  and  drinking  in  the 
melodies  of  the  deep  tangled  wildwood.  He  is  not  the  som- 
nambulist of  roast  lamb,  and  rich  croquettes,  and  frozen  egg- 
nog,  walking  and  screaming  at  midnight  in  the  tenth  story  of 
some  fashionable  hotel,  with  lace  curtains  parted  and  the  win- 
dow up,  but  he  is  the  wide-awake  and  yelling  follower  of  the 
feathered  phantoms  of  the  stubble  and  the  specters  that  crouch 
and  spring  in  the  deep  solitudes  of  the  mountains. 

Poets  mirror  nature  in  their  songs,  and  painters  make  the 
canvas  glow  with  its  reflected  lights  and  shadows;  but  the 
sportsman  sees,  and  hears,  and  touches  the  very  substance  of 
the  poet's  song,  and  walks  among  the  lights  and  the  shadows 
which  inspire  the  painter's  dreams. 

Next  to  the  chase  and  the  bird  hunt,  I  like  the  clay  pigeon 
shoot.  We  have  a  gun  club  in  our  to^\^l,  They  are  all  good 
fellows,  and  I  am  training  them  to  be  pretty  good  on  the  wing. 
My  object  is  to  bring  these  amateurs  to  such  a  state  of  efficiency 
in  the  winging  art  as  will  enable  them  to  amuse  me  in  a  match, 
and  I  have  strong  hopes  of  success  after  a  season  or  two  of  hard 
work.  Some  of  the  young  men  are  very  promising;  some  of 
them  are  all  promises  and  no  "pro  formances."  The  name 
of  our  organization  is  "The  Johnson  City  Barn  Door  Club," 
The  qualifications  for  membership  are  that  the  candidates  must 

(22) 


346  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

be  able  to  bit  a  barn  door  and  cough  up  a  $5  bill.  We  find  it 
difficult  to  get  a  quorum.  We  use  tbe  genuine  smokeless  powder 
and  hitless  shot,  also  breathless  pigeons ;  but  we  are  a  little  band 
of  busy  bees,  and  propose  to  some  day  vanquish  the  champions 
of  the  world. 

Finally,  brethren,  these  outdoor  sports  are  good  for  both 
body  and  soul.  They  give  us  muscle  and  mental  vigor;  they 
broaden  our  chests  and  our  views  of  life !  they  lengthen  our 
days  and  lighten  our  troubles.  They  are  far  better  than  our 
modern  society  amusements,  which  womanize  man  and  manize 
woman. 

As  I  have  just  received  a  note  from  a  prominent  member 
of  the  "Johnson  City  Barn  Door  Club"  informing  me  that  our 
treasurer  has  absconded,  and  summoning  me  to  the  chase,  I  must 
hie  away  to  the  woods.     Farewell. 

RoBT.  L.  Taylor. 


TO  THE  SCHOOL  TEACHERS. 

"Robin's  Roost/'  Johnson  City^  Tenn., 

July  24,  1899. 
Dear  Pedagogues : 

I  wonder  if  you  are  not  happy  today  in  your  peaceful  im- 
munity from  books  and  slates  and  chalk  and  blackboards  and 
cold  facts  and  figures  and  queries  from  every  grade  of  intelli- 
gence and  every  shade  of  curiosity ;  I  wonder  if  you  do  not  feel 
like  birds  just  out  of  a  cage — unfettered  and  unconfined,  with 
whole  firmaments  of  freedom  to  fly  in  and  whole  forests  of  rest 
to  dream  in. 

Through  all  the  weary  months  you  have  been  teaching  the 
young  idea  how  to  shoot,  and  I  am  sure  that  when  the  last 
lesson  was  recited,  and  the  last  sentimental  essay  was  read,  and 
the  last  oration  illuminated  the  horizon  on  commencement  day, 
it  was  a  moment  of  unutterable  happiness  to  you ;  I  am  sure 
that  when  the  college  doors  closed  behind  you  and  you  started 
in  search  of  the  old,  familiar  haunt  of  summer,  to  swing  in 
grapevine  swings  and  lounge  on  lazy  lawns,  you  could  scarcely 


LOVE   LETTERS  347 

restrain  the  impulse  to  swing  your  hats  in  the  air  and  shout: 
"Hurrah  for  Old  Vacation!" 

The  summer  outing  is  the  bright  oasis  in  the  life  of  the  pro- 
fessor. It  hath  groves  of  recreation  and  gardens  of  pleasure; 
it  hath  fountains  of  laughter  and  brooks  of  song;  it  is  a  breath- 
ing spell  for  the  tired  spirit;  it  is  a  bed  of  roses  for  the  weary 
brain.  I  always  feel  like  bowing  with  uncovered  head  in  the 
presence  of  the  school  teacher.  The  stone-cutter  chisels  the  rock 
from  the  quarry;  the  teacher  cuts  and  carves  and  moulds  in  the 
imponderable  material  of  mind  and  soul.  The  architect  builds 
the  chiseled  stone  into  massive  walls  and  erects  mansions  for  the 
physical  man,  but  the  teacher  builds  temples  of  knowledge  and 
palaces  of  thought.  None  but  the  noble  and  the  pure  in  heart 
should  be  allowed  to  teach,  because  their  works  endure  forever. 
Mind  touches  mind,  either  to  beautify  or  to  pollute;  character 
touches  character,  either  to  adorn  or  to  blacken;  soul  touches 
soul,  either  to  bless  or  to  blur. 

It  is  not  only  the  province  of  the  teacher  to  lead  the  child  in 
the  paths  of  knowledge,  but  it  is  also  in  his  power  to  inspire 
honesty  and  to  impress  the  principles  of  truth  and  virtue.  A 
community  blessed  with  good  teachers  is  sure  to  be  blessed  with 
an  enlightened  and  worthy  citizenship. 

I  think  there  has  been  more  progress  in  education  in  the 
last  half  a  century  than  in  any  other  realm  of  endeavor.  The 
standards  are  higher  than  the  old  standards,  and  the  methods 
are  superior  to  the  old  methods.  Our  institutions  of  learning 
are  working  wonders.  They  are  the  blossoming  of  a  higher  and 
a  better  civilization,  and  on  this  rock  rests  the  safety  of  the 
republic.  Xo  country  in  the  world  has  so  rapidly  advanced  in 
the  building  of  schoolhouses  and  in  the  increase  of  educational 
facilities  as  the  South.  We  have  universities  not  more  than  a 
third  of  a  century  old  which  are  already  the  pride  of  our  people 
and  the  glory  of  our  country.  Our  colleges  have  increass'd  in 
number  and  influence;  our  public  schools  are  spreading  every- 
where, and  it  is  now  only  in  th6  most  remote  and  poverty- 
stricken  sections  where  even  the  poorest  children  have  not  the 
opportunity  to  taste  the  sweets  of  knowledge. 

We  are  in  the  race  for  educational  supremacy.  Our  N'orth- 
ern  brethren  have  had  about  a  century  the  start  of  us,  and  they 


348  LECTURES  OF  ROBERT  L.  TAYLOR 

laugh  in  our  faces  and  comment  on  the  ignorance  of  our  people. 
I  have  seen  published  in  the  magazines  of  the  North  accounts  of 
plays  and  novels  portraying  our  murder  of  the  "King's  Eng- 
lish." Only  a  little  while  ago  I  saw  in  one  of  their  periodicals 
the  pictures  of  the  actors  and  actresses  who  are  amusing  inno- 
cent audiences  with  a  play  purporting  to  represent  the  illiteracy 
of  the  South.  It  is  the  superlative  of  slander  and  the  acme  of 
assininity.  I  have  lived  in  the  South  forty-eight  years,  and  T 
have  never  heard  the  most  ignorant  person  say  "we-uns."  We 
have  our  provincialisms ;  so  has  every  section  its  peculiar  provin- 
cialisms. I  have  heard  Bostonians  say:  "You  hadn't  ought 
to  do  it."  This  is  no  sweeter  to  the  ear  than  the  Southerner's 
expression:  "I've  done  done  it."  The  Philadelphian  says 
"wat"  for  "what."  This  sounds  as  funny  to  us  as  when  an 
illiterate  man  from  a  Southern  district  planks  down  a  broad 
"which  ?"  when  he  fails  to  catch  a  question  propounded  to  him. 
Many  people  right  in  the  shadow  of  Harvard  College  say  "to 
hum,"  which,  being  translated,  means  "at  home."  I  might 
name  a  long  string  of  "sich,"  but  I  "hain't"  got  time. 

I  repeat  that  the  ISTorth  has  a  hundred  years  the  start  of  us 
in  this  educational  race ;  but  I  warn  them  to  keep  their  eyes  on 
the  wire  and  their  spurs  in  the  flank,  for  as  sure  as  the  Lord 
reigneth  the  country  they  laugh  at  today  will  show  them  its 
heels  tomorrow ;  for,  in  the  language  of  one  of  our  distinguished 
Southern  teachers,  "Literature  loves  a  lost  cause."  There  never 
was  a  truth  more  beautifully  expressed.  Poets  have  already 
begun  to  sing  among  our  broken  columns.  Oratory  still  lives 
to  immortalize  the  deeds  of  Southern  heroes  and  to  scatter  the 
lilies  of  love  over  their  graves.  Authors  will  yet  rise  to  write 
among  our  monuments  and  to  thrill  the  gi'eat  heart  of  all 
humankind  with  the  story  of  the  grandest  civilization  this  world 
ever  saw. 

The  South  will  some  day  blossom  like  the  rose  in  art  and 
literature  and  in  all  the  elements  of  intellectual  as  well  as  ma- 
terial wealth.  Then  she  will  clasp  hands  with  an  enlightened 
North,  and  the  twain  shall  walk  together  as  one  in  perfect  peace 
and  unity. 

There  is  a  glorious  field  of  labor  already  ripe  for  our  teach- 
ers; let  them  enter  it  and  reap  the  golden  harvest.     The  clus- 


LOVE   LETTERS  349 

ters  are  purple  in  the  vineyards ;  let  them  enter  and  gather  for 
the  wine  press.  The  hills  of  the  future  are  abloom  with  oppor- 
tunities; let  them  climb  to  the  heights  and  pluck  the  flowers. 
We  have  proved  in  the  past  that  we  have  the  material  out  of 
which  statesmen  are  made;  that  we  have  the  soil  where  presi- 
dential timber  has  grown.  We  have  the  same  sunshine  which 
warmed  the  hearts  of  our  fathers,  and  we  have  the  same  blood 
which  was  shed  on  a  hundred  battle  fields;  and  nothing  can 
prevent  us  from  being  as  mighty  in  peace  as  we  have  been  brave 
in  war. 

Teachers,  take  our  children  and  train  them  for  the  future. 
Adieu. 

RoBT.  L.  Taylor. 


TO  THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

"Robin's  Roost/'  Johnson  City^  Tenn., 

September  22,  1899. 
To  the  Blue  and  the  Gray: 

Dear  Old  Veterans  of  the  Unhappy  Past :  Not  long  ago  I 
received  an  invitation  to  be  present  and  answer  to  the  toast,  "The 
Southern  Patriot,"  at  a  banquet  to  be  given  to  the  President  of 
the  United  States  and  other  distingiaished  guests  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  reunion  of  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  to  be  held  in  Evans- 
ville,  Ind.,  on  October  10-13;  and  since  I  am  deprived  of  that 
pleasure,  I  have  concluded  to  write  you  a  short  love  letter. 

A  patriot  is  a  citizen  who  loves  his  country,  whether  he  lives 
in  the  North  or  in  the  South ;  therefore  every  man  who  honor- 
ably wore  the  blue  and  every  man  who  honestly  wore  the  gray 
in  that  struggle  which  tried  the  souls  of  men  was  a  patriot.  The 
Bine  won ;  the  Gray  lost ;  but  the  boldness  of  the  Blue  and  the 
gallantry  of  the  Gray  placed  us  in  history  as  a  nation  of  heroes. 
There  can  be  no  brighter  prophecy  of  a  glorious  future  for  our 
country  than  the  fraternizing  ef  the  brave  men  who  fought 
each  other  under  opposing  flags  long  ago.  It  is  too  late  now  to 
argue  questions  which  were  settled  by  the  sword;  it  is  too  late 
to  get  hot  under  the  collar  and  shout  "Traitor !"  across  Mason 


350  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT  L.   TAYLOR 

aud  Dixon's  line.  Criminations  and  recriminations  are  very 
poor  balm  for  old  sores.  The  Union  can  exist  in  name  only  if 
we  remain  divided  by  sectional  prejudice  and  sectional  ani- 
mosity. We  must  have  the  union  of  hearts  and  the  union  of 
hands  to  perpetuate  the  republic  forever.  Fraternal  relations 
and  fraternal  feelings  must  exist  between  the  States  and  the  sec- 
tions if  we  would  preserve  the  institutions  established  by  our 
fathers.  I  believe  that  these  relations  of  brotherhood  between 
the  North  and  the  South  are  being  strengthened  more  rapidly 
and  more  thoroughly  now  than  ever  before.  The  shedding  of 
blood  once  separated  us ;  the  shedding  of  blood  is  reuniting  us. 

When  President  McKinley,  a  little  more  than  a  year  ago, 
issued  his  proclamation  calling  for  volunteers  to  fight  a  foreign 
foe  under  a  tropical  sun,  Tennesseans  toed  the  mark  side  by  side 
with  the  boys  of  Indiana  and  Pennsylvania  and  Ohio,  ready 
and  willing  to  follow  the  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  of  the 
old  flag  wherever  it  might  float  in  battle,  and,  if  need  be,  to  die 
with  their  brethren  of  the  ISTorth  under  its  ample  folds.  Grant 
and  Leo  were  in  camp  together,  Lawton  and  Wheeler  led  at 
Santiago,  and  Tennesseans  bled  on  San  Juan  Hill.  What  bet- 
ter proof  of  her  loyalty  to  the  Union  could  the  South  give  than 
when  she  sent  her  sons  into  its  armies  to  suffer  and  shed  their 
blood  for  its  triumph  and  its  glory  ? 

It  is  not  the  niunber  of  people  that  makes  nations  great,  else 
China  would  be  the  greatest  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth  to- 
day; it  is  not  prowess  that  preserves  empires  from  decay,  else 
Rome  would  have  lived  forever;  it  is  not  genius,  else  the  dust 
of  the  Parthenon  would  not  now  mingle  with  the  dust  of  Gre- 
cian art,  and  we  might  still  be  enchanted  with  the  songs  of  some 
dark-eyed  Sappho  and  charmed  with  the  Iliad  of  some  modern 
Homer.  It  is  the  virtue  and  patriotism  of  the  people  and  their 
faith  in  Almighty  God  which  uphold  governments  and  lengthen 
the  paths  of  their  glory.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  God  of  nations 
is  guiding  us  anS  shaping  our  destiny.  We  have  the  numbers 
and  the  prowess  and  the  genius;  and  if  we  will  Only  continue 
to  fraternise  aud  clierish  the  spirit  of  national  patriotisni)  we 
will  yet  realize  our  dreams  of  liberty  enlight<?ning  the  world, 
and  the  mighty  deeds  of  the  past  will  be  drowned  in  the  light 
of  our  future  glory  as  the  stars  are  drowned  in  the  light  of  the 


LOVE   LETTERS  351 

morning.  Let  us  fraternize  in  deed  and  in  truth,  never  again, 
I  trust,  with  the  sword  in  fraternal  war,  but  through  all  the 
future  in  fraternal  peace  and  brotherhood. 

The  Blue  visited  the  South  once  uninvited,  and  the  Grav 
showed  them  some  of  our  Southern  mineral  resources  in  the 
shape  of  muskets  and  cannons.  The  Gray  now  invites  the  Blue 
to  come  hither  and  see  our  mountains  of  crude  metal  which  we 
are  manufacturing  into  pig  iron,  to  be  converted  into  plowshares 
and  reapers  instead  of  muskets  and  bayonets.  What  we  want 
now  is  not  the  blood  of  the  Blue,  but  their  money.  The  South 
panteth  after  their  pocketbooks  even  as  the  hart  panteth  after 
the  water  brook.  The  Gray  boys  once  swapped  the  Blue  boys 
tobacco  for  coffee;  they  are  now  anxious  to  exchange  coal  and 
iron  and  timber  lands  for  cash.  They  once  built  forts;  they 
now  want  factories.  They  once  greeted  Dewey  with  grape  and 
canister;  they  are  now  eager  to  welcome  the  hero  of  Manila 
with  grape  juice  and  decanters.  They  stand  among  the  tomb- 
stones of  their  comrades,  true  to  their  dead  for  what  they  were, 
yet  loyal  to  the  Union  for  what  it  is.  They  kneel  among  their 
monuments  to  kiss  the  Stars  and  Bars  in  their  devotion  to  the 
glorious  past;  they  rise  to  salute  the  Stars  and  Stripes  and  to 
pledge  their  devotion  to  the  Union  through  all  the  glorious 
future.  The  hands  that  once  wielded  the  sword  and  the  musket 
have  built  a  new  civilization  on  the  ashes  of  the  old.  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  there  is  a  new  South,  but  the  grand  old  South 
rejuvenated  by  its  own  matchless  courage  and  industry.  Where 
once  the  angry  columns  met  and  clinched  and  rolled  together 
in  the  bloody  mire,  new  cities  have  sprung  up,  like  beautiful 
flowers  blossoming  in  the  huge  footprints  of  war.  Where  once 
curled  the  white  smoke  of  hostile  guns  in  phantom  towers  and 
columns,  high  above  the  dead  and  dying  heroes  of  the  Blue  and 
the  Gray,  now  the  gay  cotton  fields  wave  their  white  handker- 
chiefs of  peace  in  flirtation  with  the  bashful  fields  of  corn,  and 
the  big,  ripe  ears  grin  among  the  fodder  blades  and  sigh: 
"Oh,  shucks!" 

My  ideal  of  a  Southern  patriot  is  the  man  who  bravely  wore 
the  gray  until  his  flag  went  down  in  tears  and  blood  at  Appo- 
mattox, and  then  accepted  the  decision  of  war  in  good  faith  and 
went  home  to  become  a  loyal  American  citizen  and  to  rebuild 


352  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

his  desolated  country.  My  ideal  of  a  Northern  patriot  is  the 
man  who  bravely  wore  the  blue  until  the  struggle  was  over,  and 
then  laid  aside  the  paraphernalia  of  war  and  went  home  to  help 
restore  not  only  the  union  of  the  States,  but  the  fraternal  rela- 
tions of  the  sections.  My  ideal  of  American  patriotism  is  the 
reunion  of  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  for  the  purpose  of  cementing 
all  sections  of  our  common  country  together  forever.  Let  the 
veterans  in  gray  mingle  the  Eebel  yell  with  the  shouts  of  the 
veterans  in  blue  in  giving  a  national  welcome  to  the  great  ship- 
smasher  and  navy-sinker  of  the  world;  let  the  dew  sparkle  on 
the  Northern  hills  and  glitter  on  every  Southern  flower ;  let  the 
dewdrops  of  joy  moisten  the  eyes  of  valor  and  quiver  on  the 
cheeks  of  beauty ;  let  the  whole  continent  be  dewey  with  delight 
when  Dewey  comes  sailing  home. 

Yours  truly, 

RoBT.  L.  Taylor. 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS  UPON  RETIREMENT  FROM 

OFFICE  OF  GOVERNOR  AT  THE  END 

OF  HIS  THIRD  TERM. 

On  January  16,  1899,  on  the  occasion  of  his  retiring  from 
the  high  office  of  Governor  and  of  the  inauguration  of  the 
Governor-elect,  Benton  McMillin,  Governor  Taylor  delivered 
his  farewell  address  before  the  joint  convention  of  the  General 
Assembly  in  the  Hall  of  Representatives  at  the  Capitol.  Mr. 
President  Waddell  presented  Governor  Taylor  to  the  audience. 
He  was  received  with  hearty  cheers,  and  spoke  as  follows : 

"Mr.  Speaker,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen — I  am  about  to 
shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil  of  politics  and  fly  away  to  the  heaven 
of  my  native  mountains,  where  I  may  think  and  dream  in  peace, 
safe  from  the  sickening  sting  of  unjust  criticism,  safe  from  the 
talons  of  some  old  political  vulture,  safe  from  the  slimy  kiss 
and  the  keen  dagger  of  ingratitude.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
all  politicians  are  vultures  or  that  they  are  all  hypocrites  or 
assassins,  for  the  great  majority  of  our  public  men  are  upright 
and  honest  and  worthy  of  the  confidence  reposed  in  them  by  the 


f 


LOVE   LETTERS  353 

people;  yet  there  are  black  wings  in  the  political  firmament, 
and  reptiles  crawl  and  hiss  in  every  capitol ;  but — thank  God ! — 
the  live  thunders  of  eternal  truth  always  clear  the  atmosphere, 
and  the  heel  of  justice  will  surely  bruise  the  serpent's  head. 

"I  do  not  retire  from  this  office  with  the  rankling  of  dis- 
appointment and  chagrin  in  my  bosom,  but,  rather,  as  one  who 
retires  from  labor  to  rest,  from  war  to  peace,  from  trouble  to 
happiness.  I  do  not  retire  the  somnambulist  of  a  shattered 
dream,  but  with  all  the  buds  of  hope  bursting  into  bloom  and 
all  the  bowers  of  the  future  ringing  with  melody.  I  am  con- 
tented with  my  lot  in  life.  Three  times  I  have  worn  the  laurel 
wreath  of  honor,  twined  by  the  people  of  my  native  State,  and 
that  is  glory  enough  for  me. 

"While  I  believe  the  good  in  politics  outweighs  the  bad,  yet 
how  thorny  is  the  path  and  how  unhappy  the  pilgrimage  to  him 
who  dares  do  his  duty !  There  are  no  flowers  except  a  few  bou- 
quets snatched  from  the  graves  of  fallen  foes ;  there  is  no  happi- 
ness except  the  transient  thrill  of  cruel  triimiph,  which  passes 
like  a  shadow  across  the  heart. 

"Every  honest  man  who  runs  for  office  is  a  candidate  for 
trouble,  for  the  fruits  of  political  victory  turn  to  ashes  on  the 
lips.  To  me  there  is  nothing  in  this  world  so  pathetic  as  a  can- 
didate. He  is  like  a  mariner  without  a  compass,  drifting  on  the 
tempest-tossed  waves  of  uncertainty,  between  the  smiling  cliffs 
of  hope  and  the  frowning  crags  of  fear.  He  is  a  walking  peti- 
tion and  a  living  prayer;  he  is  the  pack-horse  of  public  senti- 
ment ;  he  is  the  dromedary  of  politics ;  and  even  if  he  reaches 
the  goal  of  his  ambition,  he  will  soon  feel  the  beak  of  the  \ailture 
in  his  heart  and  the  fang  of  the  serpent  in  his  soul.  I  am  no 
longer  a  candidate.  Never  again  will  I  be  inaugurated  into 
public  office.  The  ark  of  my  humble  public  career  now  rests  on 
the  Ararat  of  private  life,  and  I  stand  on  its  peaceful  summit 
and  look  down  on  the  receding  flood  of  politics.  The  dove  of 
my  destiny  has  brought  me  an  olive  branch  from  happier  fields, 
and  I  go  hence  to  labor  and  to  love.  I  take  with  me  a  heart  full 
of  gratitude  and  a  soul  full  of  precious  memories — gratitude  to 
the  people  for  their  unwavering  confidence  in  me ;  precious  mem- 
ories of  my  friends  who  have  been  kind  and  true.  The  record 
that  I  have  made  is  an  open  book  to  all.     I  am  willing  to  live 


354  LECTURES   OF   ROBERT   L.   TAYLOR 

by  that  record ;  I  am  willing  to  die  by  it ;  for  whatever  mis- 
takes I  may  have  committed,  I  have  kept  steadily  in  view  the 
honor  of  the  State  and  the  happiness  of  the  people. 

"As  I  have  already  presented  my  views  on  public  questions 
in  my  recent  message  to  the  General  Assembly,  I  deem  it  un- 
necessary to  further  discuss  them  on  this  happy  occasion — 
happy  to  our  new  Governor,  happy  to  you,  happy  to  me,  happy 
to  us  all.  It  only  remains  for  me  to  bid  you  all  an  affectionate 
and  final  farewell,  and  to  express  the  prayer  that  the  Christ 
who  died  for  love  and  mercy's  sake  will  guide  our  Chief  Execu- 
tive and  all  who  shall  follow  him  in  the  paths  of  peace  and  love 
and  baptize  them  with  the  spirit  of  mercy.    Farewell,  farewell !" 

Turning  to  Mr.  McMillin,  Governor  Taylor  said:  "And 
now,  Benton  McMillin,  you  have  given  your  hand  and  heart  to 
Tennessee.  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife,  and  may  the 
Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul !" 


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